Jigsaw
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: A series of ficlets from a prompt list on Tumblr. A variety of characters, pairing and themes. Some chapters are labelled with various warnings. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**1\. Gordon/Penny – Tapestry**

When they're together, it's something beautiful. The way they move together, sway together, all legs and fingers intertwined. They don't get to do it often. So, when the opportunity presents itself, they make the absolute most of it.

On the surface, it doesn't make sense. An American boy-next-door-come-surfer-dude meets the crème de la crème, private school educated and pony-owning English rose. His skin is rough from sun exposure; his hair _always_ smells of chlorine. Her skin is soft as down; her hair is scented with jasmine. He's rough and tumble, all guns blazing, with a loud mouth and a louder shirt. She's cool and calculated, thoughtful and demure.

It doesn't make sense. It _shouldn't_ work. They're diametrically opposed.

And yet.

Whenever they're together, when they join in bliss, when his fingers are wound up in her blonde locks and her face is buried into his broad shoulder, it's like all of their opposites come together, weaving and winding around each other.

The result? A tapestry of gold, of jasmine and chlorine, of legs and arms akimbo until both are satisfied. Then they rest, lingering in one another's arms, admiring the majesty of their work.

When they're together, it's something beautiful – something totally unique.


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. Virgil – Bruise**

When he fell from a first floor window, Virgil had been peppered with bruises. He'd twisted in the air and landed on his hands and knees, tearing the skin, splattering his blood on the concrete. In the days afterwards came the bruises.

He hadn't _meant_ to fall out the window. But in the heat of a rescue, sense was sometimes overridden by enthusiasm. He'd misjudged the distance he had to play with and…

Two days afterwards, he looked as though he'd been pummelled with purple paint. Huge patches of discoloured skin blossomed on his shins, his knees, his forearms, his hands. It was as if he'd been caught in a blackberry patch – quite literally, purple handed.

"Virgil, it's a good thing you bounce!" Gordon had joked. "That could have been _nasty_."

After that came the gentle ribbing. The little comments.

"Watch out for that window!"

"Careful, Virg. You don't want to fall!"

"We can't afford to fix any craters in the brickwork, you know!"

He'd always been a resilient sort of person, tough as nails and never one to lie down and admit defeat. The bruises started to heal, passing through purple to green to yellow until they could no longer be seen.

Unfortunately, there were other hurts that hadn't healed so well.

Like his bruised ego. He would _never_ live that down…


	3. Chapter 3

**3\. John – Binge**

 ** _TW: Eating Disorder_**

 _Look at those hip bones!_

 _I can see every one of your ribs, dude._

 _Your cheekbones could cut glass…_

 _Don't you ever eat?_

How many times had John Tracy heard comments like those? How many times had he stood in the gym locker room in high school, desperately scrabbling to cover himself and run from the words that cut like knives?

Even at home, he wasn't safe. As soon as he'd drop his book bag in the hall, someone would say something. He'd be peeling off his winter coat, fingers numbs from the Kansas cold, or even stripping down to a tank top after being thoroughly baked by the summer sun. And, without fail, someone would say something.

 _Jesus, John. Go make a sandwich._

 _Johnny, can I play xylophone on your ribs?_

 _Son, is there something we need to talk about?_

Sometimes he would laugh it off, hop through to the kitchen, grab an apple and take an obnoxious crunch in Scott's ear. Or he'd pull Alan into a headlock and noogie until he screamed with delight. Or he'd give his father a tiny shake of the head and smile.

"No, Dad. Everything's fine. Honest."

But it wasn't fine. It wasn't fine to listen to people, hour by hour, day after day, accuse him of being too skinny. It wasn't fine to be called beanpole or lanky legs or needle.

 _Don't turn around! You might disappear._

 _Careful, JT! You might slip down a crack in the sidewalk._

 _Dude, no girl is gonna want to date someone skinnier than they are…_

It wasn't fine that most of this was said as gentle teasing, in jest. Of course, some of the locker room taunts were meant to sting. Some of the comments on the corridor were meant to burn.

 _Oh, sorry, Tracy. I didn't_ see _you there._

But most of them, from friends and family, weren't meant to cut. In some ways, they were a sort of backwards way of acknowledging his size, of trying to show affection.

But in the wee hours of the morning, where the refrigerator light spilled out onto the tiled floor, and John sat in a circle of boxes and packets and open bottles, it didn't feel much like affection. Salty tears were his only seasoning. His main condiment was despair as his rear end went numb on the cold floor, spreading peanut butter and jelly onto slices of fine white bread, over and over and over.

 _Don't you ever eat?_

Little did they know. Oh, little did they know…


	4. Chapter 4

**4\. John/Elijah – Fever**

 **NSFW.**

Both men described themselves as asexual. They could go for months, even years, without _doing it_ , and neither minded at all.

It wasn't something easily understood by most people – though thankfully, it didn't often come up in conversation. But, to the outside world, it seemed like they were lacking something. Call it desire. Call it lust. Call it _fever_. Apparently, they didn't have it.

That was not entirely true.

There was desire, most certainly. The desire to share: _you'll never guess what Lyra did today!_ The desire to look after one another: _here, let me take that. Lean on me. Let me take the weight_. The desire not to be left alone: _I miss you so much. I wish I was up there with you…_

There was lust.

"No, you haven't. _No_. Oh, god, _yes_. You made soda bread! I am going to eat the life clean out of that, let me tell you…"

"I can't wait to get into bed with you. Are those new sheets? Are those Egyptian cotton? Amazing!"

And, at times, there was fever, too.

Because, asexual or not, there were times when they needed one another. There were times when they needed to be joined, linked, _together_. Like the time Elijah got trapped in a burning building and sucked in gallons of smoke. Like the time when John came home after Five vented its atmosphere and he nearly died. Like the time when Lyra went floppy and unresponsive and the word 'meningitis' was thrown around and _Christ…_

Once each event was over, when the danger had passed and the world was set to rights, the fever set in. They knew there was only one cure: they _needed_ each other. It didn't matter who was on top and who wasn't. It didn't matter how long it lasted. It didn't matter where or how. None of that mattered at all.

All they needed was that closeness, stubble-covered cheeks pressed into one another and the grinding, pulsing movement of togetherness, the sheen of sweat and fingers wound into bedsheets.

They didn't stop until the fever broke, until both of them felt grounded, attached, tethered to one another and not going to drift away. None of that came from orgasm. None of that came from _sex_. It came from being together, attached at the hip – literally or not – and the knowledge that neither man would be left alone to suffer.

After, they lay in one another's arms, basking in relief.

"Don't let me go, Johnny."

"I never will, Eli. I never will."


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. John – Needle**

There are no wasps in space. This was one of the greatest benefits of being on Five. No wasps meant no danger and that was never a bad thing.

John Tracy was not afraid of wasps. Of course he wasn't. They were just insects – the order _Hymenoptera_ and suborder _Apocrita_ – and they're not that remarkable. Whether _Polistes fuscatus_ , _Polistes annularis_ or _Vespula germanica_ , John didn't find them thought-provoking. Beyond some use as a pest control for aphids, they were more irritating than interesting.

No, he was not afraid of wasps. However, their venom was different. It was certainly something to be feared when causes anaphylaxis.

Twice in his life, it nearly killed him. The first time he doesn't remember. He was only a small child and he has only brief memories, the feeling of swelling, the lack of breath… Then waking up in a hospital bed.

The second time, though. _Boy_ , does he remember that.

It was a relatively normal day. The sun was shining. He was down from Five for the day and hanging out at the pool with his brothers. All normal.

It was totally unprovoked. One minute he was reading and the next, he felt a sharp stab at the back of his neck.

"Ouch! What the…"

The reaction was so fast, he couldn't even finish the sentence. His tongue thickened, he could feel his lips swelling and his throat closing. Angioedema. Urticaria. Abdominal cramps. He was on the ground before he could take one last blink with his swelling eyelids.

"Oh my _god_. Someone _help_ him!"

It was Alan, so young, so panicked. He'd never seen a reaction before. Even as his lungs burned and his mind started to numb, John could only think of his brother. _He shouldn't have to see this…_

Then he could feel his head and shoulders being cradled, he could hear Scott.

"Find the pen, Virg!" There was definite panic in his voice. "I can't see it."

Of course, the epipen. And where was it? John knew exactly where. On his bedside table, squashed between two books and a lamp. He tried to reach out, to say something, but all attempts were futile.

"It's okay, Scott," Virg said, his tone like tempered chocolate. "I have one here."

He did? John felt someone straddle his legs and then came the _jab_. Epinephrine, administered intramuscularly, straight into the mid anterolateral thigh.

"Come on, Jay," Virgil said.

John could feel more hands on him and within a minute his throat started to loosen and he sucked in a breath.

"Virg…"

"Thank _god_."

John was shaking, shuddering, but in spite of it he allowed himself to be manhandled upright, Scott's hands on his back and Virgil right in front, stopping him from toppling forward.

That little needle had saved his life. Never again would he be without one. But, he thought as he pressed his face into Virgil's shoulder, at least if he did forget, he knew there would always be a flannel-clad guardian there to save the day.


	6. Chapter 6

**6\. Scott and EOS – Wine**

"Scho wassa deal with you, _anyway_."

"I do not understand."

Scott rolled his eyes and swirled the dark red liquid around in his glass. He'd had too much wine two glasses ago, but today had been hard. _Really_ hard. He'd clocked up too many flight hours over the past few days so even if there was another rescue, he wasn't allowed to take One out. So, partly from irritation and partly from the unadulterated need for relaxation, he'd cracked open a bottle of wine.

And then another.

And now he was talking to John's strange computer program friend. At 2AM.

"What _are_ you?" he asked.

He was in the lounge, sprawled over one of the couches. Everyone else was in bed – including John on Five, apparently. The creature being broadcast in blue light was not John, despite looking exactly like him. It was EOS, the… _thing_. The program. The AI. The thing that had tried to kill not one but _two_ of Scott's brothers.

Up until now, he hadn't made much contact with the thing. But now that he was filled with wine-logic, it seemed as good a time as any to talk to it.

"I am an artificial intelligence," it said.

Even though it was projecting John's image, the voice that came from its mouth was the sickly sweet, girlish tone the AI had adopted for itself.

"I was born of code written by your brother. And now I work with him."

"But…how?"

There was a pause. The holographic image of John flickered for a moment, its face blank and impassive as the AI processed the information.

"I evolved," it said.

"But… _how_?"

Again, its face went blank.

"I do not know exactly," EOS said. "However, I am here now. John says that is all that matters."

"John shays a lot o' things," Scott slurred. Wine slopped onto his hand. "Doeschn't mean he's always right. He doeschn't know _everything_."

EOS cracked a smile and nodded.

"Correct," it said.

Before Scott could say anything further, another hologram appeared. This time, it was the real John, all tousled hair and bleary eyed.

"Scott, what are you doing?" he asked.

"Schee!" Scott said, raising his glass in victory. "He _doeschn't_ know everything."

"Correct," EOS said again.

Real John's face crumpled with irritation and he ran his gloved fingers through his hair.

"Scott, why are you talking to EOS at 2AM?"

"Becaushe," Scott said, "I _wanted_ to."

There wasn't much John could say to that. Instead, he dropped his head into one hand.

"Go to bed," he said. "I think you've had enough wine for one year."

"Incorrect," EOS-John said. "Males may have a maximum intake of 728 units per year, based on a 14 units per week measurement. By my calculations, Scott has only ingested –"

"Yes, _thank you_ , EOS," John said. "I wasn't being literal."

EOS-John's face fell into a pout of irritation.

"Scott is right," it said. " _You_ are _not_ always right."

In a huff, the hologram disappeared, leaving Scott behind with just the real John. His scowl was venomous.

"What did she mean by – actually, scratch that," John said. "Go to bed, Scott. _Now_."

But there was no response. For Scott had fallen asleep, wine glass still perched in one hand.

When John's hologram flicked off, the room went dark – at last.


	7. Chapter 7

**7\. Kayo – Doll**

Kayo Kyrano prided herself on her ability to look forward, not back. She had a tragic past. This was not something she could deny. But, nor was it something she wanted to labour upon. Yes, her parents were dead. Yes, she had lost everything. Yes, she had been taken away by her uncle and suffered under his iron rod for several years before she managed to escape.

But she didn't like to think about it. It was all too easy to get lost in the dark corners of her mind, thinking about wrongs done and things she wished she'd said – or hit.

Life was better now. Life had been better for many years, ever since the fateful day when Lucille Tracy had taken one look at her and _told_ her husband they were adopting a daughter. Jeff hadn't been given the opportunity to object but even if he had, he wouldn't have done so. They had five boys. They had always wanted a girl. They had the money and the means, and the child was _clearly_ in need of a good home. And so, things went the way they did.

Sadly, Kayo hadn't been graced with a mother for too long. Within three years, Lucille had passed away. But what would never die was Kayo's loyalty to her second mother – and her second father.

The first day she had officially been released from the orphanage and into the Tracys' care, they had taken her to a toy store.

"There's a lot of stuff in the house," Lucille had said, gripping her nine-year-old daughter's hand, "but I want you to pick two of three things that are just for you."

Browsing the shelves was like being given a cornucopia. Kayo had spent nearly an hour browsing the wares, very carefully making her choices.

She chose a football – or a _soccer_ ball as they said in the States – and a jump rope, and, best of all, a doll. Not just any doll. _Her_ doll.

It had been years since Kayo had owned a doll. This one was soft, with wool hair and a little plastic nose. And she had looked so forlorn as it disappeared into the bag that Lucille had lifted it out straight away. And together, they had walked out, Lucille holding onto Kayo, Kayo holding onto the doll, and finally, they went home.

Years on, Kayo still mourned the loss of her second mother. She didn't like to look back. She prided herself on looking forward. But every day, when she adjusted the doll into pride of place on her bed, Kayo didn't mind looking back, just for a bit.

Some things don't need to be remembered. Some people can be left behind. But with others, it's different.

Some people should never be forgotten.


	8. Chapter 8

**8\. Alan – Accident and Fever**

He hadn't _meant_ to fall onto that jagged piece of metal. He hadn't _meant_ to rip his arm open nearly from elbow to wrist. It was his first rescue and the last thing he wanted was to look like a total idiot. So Alan covered up the injury and went on.

There was no chance to cover things up later on when Virgil found him slumped on the floor of his room, running a temp of 101 and sweating as though he was in the Sahara.

"Alan, what the heck?" Virgil had said as he pulled his brother upright, supporting all his weight.

Words betrayed him. He hadn't _meant_ to tell the truth. But he did.

"I got hurt yesterday," he said. Every syllable was like molasses. "I think that's why…"

Reluctantly, he raised his injured arm and Virgil sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.

" _Jesus_ , Allie," he said. "That's _bad_. And it's infected- which is why you're so sick. C'mon, let's get you into bed."

With considerable effort, Alan managed to drag himself across the room and allowed Virgil to strip off his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

"You should have told me," he said as he reached for a sleep-shirt instead.

"Didn't want to look…bad," Alan said.

He raised his arms on cue to let Virgil pull the sleep-shirt down.

"For crying out loud," Virgil said, though his tone was kind, "we all make mistakes. We all get hurt."

"Maybe," Alan said as he lowered himself down onto the pillow's soft embrace. "But it was my first time and… And… I didn't want Scott to think I wasn't ready."

Virgil drew the covers up to Alan's waist and sat on the side of the bed.

"Oh, please," he said. "Do you know what happened the first time Scott was out? Clanked his head on the interior of One's cockpit and gave himself a concussion."

Despite the feeling that his body was rebelling against him, Alan managed to laugh.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really," Virgil said. He laid a hand on Alan's shoulder. "So don't worry about it. I'll be back in a minute with something to clean that wound." His eyes grew softer, sadder. "Promise me you won't hide something like this again, Al, would you?"

Smiling and feeling sleep begin to overcome him once more, Alan tried to nod.

"I promise, Virg," he said. "I promise."


	9. Chapter 9

**9\. Scott – Punishment**

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!"

With renewed strength, Scott pummelled the punching bag again and again. His arms were burning. His knuckles were bleeding through the wraps. And yet he still continued. He would keep going until the thought of himself didn't make bile rise in his throat any more. Until he could stop thinking about his mistake.

Until he had been punished enough.

The day started off normally enough. Nothing too difficult. Just another rescue. A group of climbers had been stranded in a gully. They had taken One and Two out and Scott had donned his jet pack, ready to help.

When he saw the first stranded climber, he had done a double-take. She looked so familiar. There was something about the sweep of her jawline, the shape of her eyes, that made Scott stop for a moment and just _look._ And then it hit him like a brick to the face. She looked like his _mother_.

And he had _choked_. He'd hesitated, only for a moment and yet long enough to miss the woman's hand as she reached out. And some of the rock face gave way. And down she went, plummeting into the abyss. If it hadn't been for Virgil's quick thinking, she would have died.

And it would have been _Scott's fault_.

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!"

Every strike sent pain lancing up his arms. But he would have kept going until his knuckles were nothing but blood and bone.

Something stopped him, though. A pale hand, a thin wrist that belied its strength. And John had said nothing as Scott wheezed, as pain engulfed him. He said nothing as Scott fell apart _again_ because the pressure was too much, too much…

He said nothing as he cradled Scott in his arms, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades as Scott's bloodied fingers buried into his back.

He didn't need to say anything. He didn't need to ask questions. John knew.

For Scott, that was the most comforting aspect of all.


	10. Chapter 10

**10\. Brains – Button**

His favourite jacket has mismatched buttons. Brains has never been good at keeping things like spares. He always has something else on his mind, something more he should be thinking about. So those little plastic bags that come with new clothing, containing delightful spare buttons, are always lost. They disappear somewhere into the oblivion that is his bedroom or his lab. After all, jacket buttons are far less important than particle physics or mechanical engineering.

This particular jacket, though, cannot be thrown out. It cannot be cast aside. It cannot be replaced. Every time a button has fallen off, Brains has replaced it with whatever he can find – and not all of the replacements are particularly _matching_.

There's a cream button with a pearlescent sheen. There's a navy one with a chunk missing from the side. There's also a reddish-brown button that has two holes, while the others have four. All together on a brown tweed jacket that originally had matching fabric-covered buttons.

Brains doesn't care that they don't match. He doesn't care that the buttons are all strange, a disharmony on his chest. What matters is that he can still wear the jacket, can still button it up, nice and snug around his waist.

Kayo bought him the jacket many years before. Just out of the blue, totally unsolicited.

"I saw it and I thought you'd like it," she had said. "If you don't like it, I can bring it back."

But he had liked it – more than she would ever know. Not only was it a nice jacket, not only did it fit him well, but it said something else. It said that Kayo had been thinking about him.

It was a jacket he would wear even after the elbow patches had started to fray and the hems were worn. Why?

Because it reminded him that he was _worth_ thinking about.


	11. Chapter 11

**11\. John – Wander**

' _That's the place to get to—nowhere. One wants to wander away from the world's somewheres, into our own nowhere.'_ _―_ _D.H. Lawrence_

"Where are you going?"

He answers with a smile and a shrug.

"Wherever I end up."

Off John goes, hiking into the island's wilderness. It's a habit he's had since he was a kid. His first wander was at five years old. He wanted to see where the store was. Two hours later, he was in the back of a cop car, his nose pressed against the window as the world whizzed by. The punishment had been severe, but it had been worth it. He'd found the store all by himself.

These days, his wanders tend to be less organised and with less direction. It's a big island but not so huge that you could get seriously lost. And so he takes off at whatever pace he so chooses in whatever direction takes his fancy. Sometimes it's a trail he's trod before. Sometimes it's somewhere new.

"What are you looking for out there?"

Again, he answers with a shrug and a smile.

"I don't know. Maybe nothing at all."

Sometimes, there's too much here and now. Sometimes the weight of responsibility and family and life become like millstones, dragging him down, tethering him. Sometimes he gets tired of being somewhere he doesn't want to be, doesn't need to be.

And so he wanders. Because sometimes you just need to get away and disappear into your own nowhere.


	12. Chapter 12

**12\. Gordon/Penny – Asylum**

 _asylum: noun_

 _1\. the protection granted by a state to someone who has left their home country as a political refugee._

 _2\. an institution for the care of people who are mentally ill._

Gordon had always been a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. There wasn't much that could take the glint from his smile. Or so it seemed. It was easy to play the joker, to put on his jester's hat and dance around the lounge, bells tinkling. It was a distraction. It meant the others didn't look to close. If they did, they might have seen the hairline cracks in his clown's smile.

Penny knew, though. She had seen right through him from the start. She had been the first to say the word. She had poke him, prodded him, supported him all the way to the doctor's office, she helped him start off a conversation no one ever thought Gordon Tracy would have.

"Well, doc. I think… I think…"

And she had been there with gentle shoulder touches and a reassuring smile.

"I think I'm depressed."

He'd stayed with Penny for some time after that. He'd taken a leave of absence from IR and gone to England – and even managed to find some common ground with Parker. With Penelope, he felt safe. She could wrap her slender arms around him and banish all the demons away.

The Creighton-Ward mansion became his home for some time. He could have looked at it like an asylum, like a place that was meant to keep him locked away, safe as houses. But he didn't. He tilted his head and looked again. It was a safe-haven, a chance for him to catch his breath and just _live._

It was a kind of asylum, he guessed. But it was a different sort. Penny was sheltering him from his sorrows, protecting him when the rain of despair came down on his head. And, most crucially of all, she was helping to build him back up again – stronger than ever before.


	13. Chapter 13

**13\. Scott and Virgil – Fever**

"Honestly. Can _none_ of you take care of yourselves?"

Virgil had a valid point. The Tracy brothers had a long list of incapable-of-looking-after-themselves or trying-to-hide-illness misdemeanours. So Scott didn't have a leg to stand on – which was fine, since he couldn't stand anyway.

He winced as the thermometer was pushed into his mouth. Virgil scowled and Scott did his best to smile – because Virgil had _other_ thermometers that went in _other_ places, and he didn't want that to happen. Again.

"One hundred and two," Virgil said after he had unceremoniously pulled the thermometer out. "Congratulations, Scott. You've just won a vacation – for a few days, in your bed, _no arguments_."

"But –"

Error. Back it up. BIG mistake. Scott grimaced as Virgil so slowly, so deliberately, folded his arms and just _looked_ at him.

"Okay…" Scott said.

The smallness of his own voice was cringe-worthy but there was no arguing with Virgil and _that_ look.

"Let's go," Virgil said, hoisting Scott up and looping an arm around his lanky brother's torso. "Time for beddie-byes."

"Virg, I'm sure it's not-"

"Scott, I _will_ carry you if you don't come quietly. You know I will."

And he did. Virgil did not make threats lightly – and if he could carry Alan on one arm and Gordon on the other _at the same time_ , he could definitely handle Scott.

Defeated, the eldest Tracy allowed himself to be guided to his bedroom. And by the time his head hit the pillow, he knew that Virgil was right. Every ounce of strength in his body was leaving – rats from a sinking ship – or maybe a more coherent analogy. Scott didn't know. He was losing the fight with his own brain.

"M'sorry, Virg," he muttered into the pillow.

A hand settled on the top of his head and lingered there for a moment.

"Just get some rest, Scott."

And so he did.


	14. Chapter 14

**14\. John and Virgil – Target**

"Argh! I lost the target lock again."

Virgil resisted the urge to slam his fist on the console. It wasn't Two's fault that he couldn't secure the line.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, being rolled and bucked by the remnants of Hurricane Imad, was a ship full of innocent people. And for the _third_ time, Virgil failed to get a lock with his magnetic grips.

"Dammit!"

" _Virgil_."

The authority in that tone cut right through his despair. It grounded him. He shook the anger from his eyes.

"John, what's the plan."

Thousands of miles away, floating in the cold embrace of space, John Tracy was there – as always – the voice of logic, the voice that always had a new idea.

" _Let me take over the targeting sensors_ ," he said. " _You're working blind. I've got all the data to hand. I can do this. As soon as the target's locked, I'll reroute control back to you again_."

Having Two's controls taken from him ever felt right – just like when Fischler's idiotic weather balloon had shorted out Two and he'd had to let Gordon take over. But, in that same incident, John had taken control. John had saved the day. So, without hesitation, Virgil nodded.

"Do it."

" _Keep her steady for me, Virg_ ," John said.

And so he did, watching the holographic readouts of his brother's efforts from a million billion miles above.

" _Target lock acquired… Lines away – boom! The tethers are locked on. Handing control back to you, Thunderbird Two_."

"Thanks, Thunderbird Five," Virgil said, swinging Two around to steady the boat below. "Couldn't have done it without you."

John said nothing but Virgil knew, had no doubt, that he was smiling.


	15. Chapter 15

**15\. John and Virgil – Smoke**

"Jay…"

Crap. Busted. We who are about to die, salute you. John didn't even try to hide the cigarette. It was poised just before his lips, the flame from the lighter still dancing in the light breeze.

"This is a mirage," he said.

Virgil walked over and plucked the offending white stick from between his fingers and ripped it in two. John sighed and flopped down onto a rock. It was his favourite rock on the island. Near one of the sandier beaches, tucked under overhanging foliage – the perfect place to have a sneaky smoke. Or so he thought.

"John, I thought you'd stopped," Virgil said.

The pain, the _betrayal_ , in Virgil's voice made John's gut cramp. He had stopped. In fact, he had still stopped. The cigarette was going to be the first on the slippery slope back to addiction. God dammit.

"I have," he said. "I just… I don't know."

Virgil lowered himself onto the rock beside his brother and shook his head.

"I'd give you a lecture," he said, "but you know it all. So just tell me this: _why_ today? Why _now_?"

John opened his mouth and closed it again. He ground his teeth together so hard his fillings ached. What was the answer to that question?

"I can resist anything but temptation?" he asked.

It came out as a question, an attempt to ask for forgiveness. But Virgil wasn't buying it and folded his arms.

"Oscar Wilde won't save you now," he said. "Spit it out."

And so John opened and closed his mouth again and clenched the lighter in his fist. How could he talk about it? How could he admit what was going on in his head? He looked up, took in the compassion and worry in Virgil's dark eyes, and a barrier broke down inside him. Words began to come.

"I think… I think… Virg, do you blame yourself for Dad's disappearance?"

Taken aback by the question, Virgil tilted his head backwards and frowned.

"No," he said. "I don't see how I could. I wasn't with him. I wasn't there."

John gave a little self-depreciating snort and pursed his lips together.

"Well, I was – and I do."

Virgil's frown deepened.

"What do you mean you were with him?" he asked. "Dad was – _oh_."

There it was. The penny dropped and Virgil's lips formed a small circle.

"I was watching him on the holomonitor," John said. "I was there, looking out for weather patterns, making sure his flight path was clear, and then – poof. Gone. Nothing. I didn't know where he went, I couldn't find him, I couldn't _talk_ to him. He just disappeared."

"But it wasn't your fault," Virgil said. "You didn't make him disappear."

"But I should have been able to find him," John said, panic closing over his throat. "I should have been able to figure it out, to triangulate his position, to do _something_. I –"

" _John_."

Virgil's voice stopped his rant dead and John blinked.

"It was not your fault," Virgil said. "It wasn't any of our faults. We're looking for him but we still have to do our jobs, too. That's what Dad would have wanted. He wouldn't have wanted you stretching yourself six ways from Sunday trying to spin all the plates and look for him. John, have you _seen_ yourself, recently? You look like you've dropped ten pounds and haven't slept in weeks."

Automatically, he looked down at his torso. He didn't just look like he'd lost weight – he had. And he didn't just look like he hadn't been sleeping – because he hadn't. The pressure of everything was threatening to tear him apart, limb from limb. He was already ripping at the seams.

"I guess you're right," John said eventually. "It's not what Dad would have wanted."

"And this," Virgil said, lifting up one half of the torn cigarette, "is definitely not what he would have wanted. It's not going to help. It's going to make you feel worse in the long run."

Slumping in on himself, John nodded.

"Yeah, I know…"

Then he found himself pulled upright again, one flannel-clad arm wrapped around his bony shoulders.

"We're all here for each other," Virgil said. "Jay, you've got to share the weight. Stop trying to carry the world."

Allowing himself to sink into the embrace, John nodded. He wasn't the foundation. He wasn't the glue He never had been. That job fell to only one of them, in truth.

Virgil Tracy, Atlas of the family. The one who carried them all.


	16. Chapter 16

**16\. Virgil - Lumber**

 _lumber: verb_

 _1\. move in a slow, heavy, awkward way._

 _2\. to move with a rumbling noise._

His biceps are burning. His back is _screaming_. But he has to keep going, lumbering through the darkness. The kid in his arms can't be more than fourteen and _Christ_ , don't let this be the day they lose one.

He's deep inside the cave and he doesn't need to ask himself _why_ the kid was down there. Because that's what kids do. They explore, the push boundaries, they go where they shouldn't go. How many times had he or his brothers gone off adventuring, blundering into who-knew-what kind of danger. But they did it and they didn't look back.

That was the path this scrawny teen had taken. In a different life or a parallel universe, it could have been Alan that Virgil was cradling. It could have been Gordon. And in this moment, with boulders crashing down around him and the light at the end of the tunnel seeming to drift away, that's exactly what it feels like. It's Alan. It's Gordon. It's John. It's Scott. It's Brains. It's Kayo. It's _Dad_. The faces of everyone he's ever rescued flash across the pallid cheek of the boy in his arms.

Virgil needs to get the kid out of there. He _needs_ to. So he lumbers on.

Because that's what Tracys do.


	17. Chapter 17

**17\. Gordon – Socks**

You can never underestimate the power of a good pair of socks. At least, that's what Gordon believes, anyway. Some socks are just fun – like his pink ones with the pineapple motif. Some socks have a lot of sentimental value. Like the little pair of navy baby socks he keeps at the back of his drawer. Because his mom bought them for him when he was a new-born and he loves the little anchor pattern – but he loves the connection to his mother more.

Some socks have special powers. Silly? Not at all. Gordon has a very powerful pair of socks – though they aren't a matching pair.

One of them is actually John's. It's black with the pattern of different constellations on it. Gordon can name a few – Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, Orion. The other is a gym sock, white-gone-off-white with one blue and one red strip around the top. It belongs to Scott. Or at least, it did.

This unlikely pair of socks was what he was wearing when he went out on his first rescue. Quite _why_ he was wearing them in the first place, Gordon cannot remember. All that matters is that he was and that while wearing them, the rescue went off without a hitch. No injuries. No casualties. No problems.

So he wears them on every rescue now. He keeps them tucked inside his wet shoes, hidden from sight in case anyone would think they didn't belong there, would take them away.

Why do they have such power? Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's all in his head. But what Gordon does know is that he'll always have John's wisdom on his left and Scott's courage on his right. And with those two features, he can't ever go wrong.


	18. Chapter 18

**18\. Gordon – Asylum**

 _TW: mental illness. TW: self-harm. Dark subject matter._

How and why were two words they didn't ask any more. How did it happen? Why did it happen to _him_? There was no point because even if they got the answer, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't help.

It wouldn't get Gordon out.

Scott hates walking down those corridors. He hates the cleanliness. He hates the smell – ammonia and fresh flowers. He hates the sympathetic smiles of the nurses and the aides. They step aside as he walks by. He tries not to look at them and rounds the last corner.

Gordon's cell – _room_ , he corrects himself – is in the east wing. He has a window that overlooks the quad below, all green grass and people sitting on benches. Gordon doesn't go out. He's not allowed. He's too dangerous, they said. A danger to himself and others. His very window is barred. It's not even made of glass. It's toughened Perspex so he can't break it. He smashed the first window and turned the shards on himself.

Then when John tried to help him, he stabbed him in the throat.

Scott hates that he hates coming here. He shouldn't. He should look forward to it, he should _want_ to see his brother. But he doesn't. It's not Gordon in there, any more. The happy-go-lucky aquanaut is long gone. What is left behind his just a shell, a husk, rotting in an asylum – a _hospital_ , he corrects himself again. There is nothing left of the joker. There is nothing left of the Gordon he once knew.

Scott isn't allowed into the room any more. He sits outside, peering through the little viewing slot, watching as his brother rocks in a corner, one fist jammed in his mouth.

And all Scott can think of is _Christ, I'm glad Dad didn't have to see this._


	19. Chapter 19

**19\. Virgil, Gordon and Alan – Wisdom**

No matter what it was about, Gordon always listened to Virgil. And whatever Gordon listened to, Alan listened to. And so, Virgil found himself in the position to dispense some wisdom on a regular basis.

Like when they were only tots and he was instructing them in the most structurally stable way to build a sandcastle.

Like when they were struggling with quadratic equations and he taught them an easier way to go about it all.

Like when their mother died and he told them that the best way to deal with grief was to cry it out. And his shoulders were always there for them.

Like when their dad disappeared and he bore their pain along with his own.

Sometimes, even someone as wise as Virgil needed to be given a bit of wisdom.

Like when the tinies taught him that knowing the notes of a piano piece wasn't as important as having fun learning it.

Like when a head wound caused him to lose a chunk of his precious hair and they shaved their heads in solidarity.

Like when they caught him sniffling alone in his room and reminded him that their shoulders were always there, too.

Wisdom is a funny thing. Only a wise man knows that he doesn't know everything.


	20. Chapter 20

**20\. John and Gordon – Torrent**

 _The rain, rain, rain_

 _Came down, down, down_

 _In rushing, rising riv'lets_

 _'Til the river crept out of its bed_

 _And crept right into piglet's._

"Gordon, hurry up, will you?"

"I'm nearly there, John. Just hold on."

The laugh that comes out of his mouth is more like a strangled sob. What else would he be doing? John Tracy is hanging on, alright – hanging onto a rusted pipe as torrents of rain hammer down on his head. And the culvert he's trapped in is rapidly filling. And his ankle is jammed between two sheer concrete slabs. And _why the hell did he even bother to get up today_?

Gordon is on the way. Gordon is coming. The torrential rain is slowing his progress, John knows. He can imagine him slipping and sliding on the slick concrete, knees and elbows smashing against the impossible surface as he creeps ever-onwards, towards John.

But what John doesn't need to imagine is how fast the water is rising. A few minutes ago, it was only up to his knees. The rain is coming down so hard that he's already submerged to his waist.

He can imagine what he must look like. In the rain, his red hair goes brown, splattered in jagged edges on his forehead. He can hear his teeth chattering, rattling his brain. Because the rain is _freezing_ and it's becoming hard to think.

Even when Gordon arrives, he doesn't know what can be done. His ankle is sandwiched between those slabs and any time he moves, he can feel the shattered bones grinding against each other. And he _screams_.

"I can see you now, John!" Gordon says. "I'm coming!"

But John can't see Gordon. He can't see anything through the haze of agony. The edges of his vision are starting to blur and darken.

"Gordon, _please_ …"

The water is up to his armpits now and his biceps are starting to give way. He can hear the muscle fibres stretch and tear in desperation. He can't see Gordon but he can hear him through the comm, edging closer, asking him to keep holding on.

But his fingers are numb and cut to shreds on the jagged edges of the pipe. And his head slips under the glassy surface of the water, and suddenly, everything seems peaceful.

It's quiet under the water. But after a moment his burning lungs object and it's not peaceful any more. It's terrifying and it's the end of the world and all he can think of is Gordon. _Get out of here, kid_ , he thinks. _Save yourself_.

He's just on the verge of unconsciousness as a rebreather is shoved into his mouth. Sweet, sweet air rushes back into his lungs and a bouquet of bubbles forms a garland around his head.

And then he sees Gordon, giving him a thumbs up, smiling behind the shimmering glass of his visor.

As he takes in gulps of precious air, John watches as Gordon swims down through the impossible narrowness of the gulley, upside down and eternally graceful. Then he looks up and the apology is so stark in his eyes that John chokes.

He knows what needs to be done. Gordon's going to have to pull his leg out. There is no other choice.

John is sure that, underwater or not, his screams can be heard on the surface. The agony is horrific. He can feel the bones crunch. His vision blackens again and the rebreather slips out of his hands.

But then it's back in his mouth and there's an arm around his chest and Gordon is _kicking_ and writhing, hurtling them back to the surface. _He's got to be part merman_... That's the last coherent thought John has before he blacks out.

When he comes to again he's lying on the ground. He feels like an ice cube. He looks like a drowned rat. He's not sure if his foot is even _there_ anymore. But Gordon is there. And when he smiles, John knows that everything will be alright.


	21. Chapter 21

**21\. Virgil and Gordon – Decoy**

 _decoy: noun_

 _1\. a bird or mammal, or an imitation of one, used by hunters to attract other birds or mammals._

"I don't think this is going to work."

"Trust me, Virg. It'll work."

Virgil closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. It wasn't going to work. It was never going to work. And yet Gordon was still going to try.

"If you say so," Virgil said, "but don't complain when I get to say, 'I told you so.'"

"Silence," Gordon said as he handed over the string. "Have faith, padawan."

Then he was off, loping across the kitchen with giant steps, leaving Virgil behind. Alone, now he crouched behind the kitchen counter with the string in his hand. And tied to the other end?

A bagel.

This was _never_ going to work.

His legs were going numb when he heard the tell-tale trip that signalled John was on his way. _Alright, Gordon,_ Virg thought. _Here we go…_

John was whistling as he entered the kitchen. He threw something down onto the table – it sounded heavy but also had a flutter to it. No doubt, it was a book.

Virgil tensed as the footsteps drew closer. By now, Gordon would be in place. There was a delighted little 'ooh' when John noticed the bagel. As soon as Virgil felt pressure on the end of the line, he tugged.

" _Huh_?"

There was pressure on the line again; Virgil pulled.

"What the heck?"

 _Please forgive me, John. He made me do it…_ Virgil pulled on the bagel again. Now that John's attention was fully absorbed in the decoy, it was Gordon's time to strike.

"NO REGRETS!"

"What the – AAAAAAAAAH!"

Clad in a superman style cape and a pair of John's own rocket boots and wielding two cans of silly string, Gordon _flew_ across the kitchen to barrel straight into the red head. And down they went, kicking and screaming with colourful string spraying in all directions – with Gordon's manic laughter a chorus to it all.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY IS THIS?"

Daring to peek around the corner of the counter, Virgil jammed a hand over his mouth to stop the laugh from bursting out. John was covered in orange and green string, half-cocooned in the cape with Gordon straddling him, spraying more string into his hair.

"NO REGRETS!" Gordon cried again.

"GORDON TRACY, I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL _KILL_ YOU – AND WHOEVER WAS ON THE OTHER END OF THAT BAGEL!"

 _Oh dear. Oh_ dear _, oh dear_. _I'm not going down for this,_ Virgil thought as he cast the string aside. _Sorry, brother!_

Thankfully, Gordon had become an effective decoy for his escape. John was still blinded by string and tangled in a swath of fabric. The time was right. The opportunity was there. So Virgil _ran_.


	22. Chapter 22

**22\. John and Kayo – Decoy**

His aloofness is a decoy. Kayo knows that. She's known it all along. He stays away, hidden up in space, away from it all. It's so they don't think about what's going on underneath. It's so they don't look too close into those green eyes.

He sends them off on the wrong path, never quite admitting what's really going on. But Kayo is a master of deception. It's hard not to be when you have a secret quite as big as hers. She sees through him. She sees the hairline cracks.

She can peer right into them. She can see what lies beneath. Sorrow. Guilt. Anger. Frustration. And most of all, fear.

" _Don't you ever get lonely up there, John_?"

He says no. And he means it. Because, as Kayo knows, you're never alone when you're surrounded by your demons. It's never quite in your head. There are always voices telling you what you already know.

 _You should have seen it coming._

 _You should have done something._

 _You should have stopped it._

Kayo knows these voices all too well because they're in her head, too. Because John blames himself for his father's disappearance. And Kayo blames herself, since it was her uncle that did it – or so he says. Who really knows?

They think he's just up there, working hard, keeping busy. And he is. But that's not _just_ what he's doing. He's been building up defences for years. He's been painting that decoy smile so that they'll never know, never suspect.

But Kayo knows. And so when he comes down to earth she seeks him out. Together they share their secrets without speaking. They communicate through touch and taste and _Christ_ , it feels so good. They don't say a word.

It occurs to her later that maybe the sex is a decoy, too. Maybe he knows that she knows. Maybe he's afraid she'll spill his secrets. Maybe she's afraid he'll spill hers.

After all, doesn't the old adage go: _keep your friends close and your enemies closer_?


	23. Chapter 23

**23\. Virgil and Penelope – Scarf**

 **NSFW.**

Virgil only owns one scarf. It's a silk one, soft as snow and patterned with little diamonds.

He doesn't wear it. In fact, he doesn't even keep it on the island. It's in a drawer in one of the guest rooms at the Creighton-Ward mansion. And he only wears it on _very_ special occasions.

It's long. It has fronds of plaited threads at the edges. It's easy on the skin, malleable as butter yet strong as rope. It's perfect for its purpose. And of course, Penelope knew that when she gave it to him.

It was a few Christmases before, not long after their father had disappeared. No one had left much like celebrating – not least, Virgil. Because everything around him as falling apart and he was doing his best to stop it all from crashing down. It was like spinning plates and putting out fires at the same time. Trying to keep everything ticking over. Trying to make sure everyone was alright.

He got tired after a while. Tired of being the one in charge of dinner, of making sure everyone was accounted for, of trying to avoid the bust-ups and tearful screams. Their father's disappearance hit them all like and eighteen wheeler but Virgil knew there was no time to mourn, no time to relax. He had a job to do, stuck in the middle of the family, trying to keep it all together.

Penelope came to the island for Christmas. And it was the best thing that could have happened. Instead of worrying about themselves, the brothers refocused on Penny, working together to make sure she was alright. They knew she was no fainting flower in need of protection. But it was a convenient excuse to pull their socks up.

And as they did, Virgil _finally_ got to relax.

And with Penny's help, he managed to relinquish some control.

She'd straddled him as she wound the scarf around his wrists and through the slats in the headboard. The scarf was so gentle and yet when he tugged on the restraints, his hands wouldn't budge.

And she took control. She bore the strain. She made him feel like everything was alright again – even just for a little while.

Red-faced and sweating, he keened as she brought him to the brink. He whined as she wouldn't let him let go. But he loved every minute of it. And when she finally granted him release, it was the best he'd ever had.

Post-coital, she lay in his arms – or he in hers, for it wasn't quite clear. It didn't matter. They were together. That was enough.

"Next time you need to relax, Virgil dear," she purred into his ear as they embraced, "the scarf will be waiting for you…"


	24. Chapter 24

**24\. John and EOS – Voice and Accident**

"An accidental power overload shorted out some systems," John said.

" _O-okay, John_ ," Brains said. " _Let me know if you n-need any h-help_."

John smiled at the hologram of the engineer and nodded.

"Will do," he said. "Nothing major has gone offline. It's mostly contained to redundant systems and – OUCH!"

" _John? What's wrong?_ "

John rubbed the back of his head where the spanner had hit him. It had been launched across the cabin by a well-timed CO2 blast.

"Nothing, Brains," he said, scowling. "I'll check in after about an hour, okay?"

" _F.A.B., John._ "

Brains's tone was reluctant. Regardless, the blue hologram disappeared and John turned to scowl at the camera overhead. EOS's lights were a bright red ring but John was in no mood for petulance.

"EOS, please don't throw things at me," he said. "I don't understand why you're upset with me."

A series of whirring and clicking sounds filled the air and he jammed his fingers in his ears.

"EOS, stop!" he said. "I'm doing my best. I'll get your voice systems back online as soon as I can. But they're not really the priority right now – _whoa_!"

Another blast. This time, EOS sent a screwdriver flying in his direction.

"Seriously, EOS! I'm going to get hurt if you don't cut it out!"

The little red lights dimmed and turned to gold. EOS pointed her camera downwards and looked away.

Sighing, John drew his fingers through his hair before planting his hands on his hips.

"Look, I know it's frustrating to not be able to say what you want. I know it's hard to be, well, _voiceless_. But you've got to be patient with me. I can't do everything at once."

EOS's lights turned green and the camera slid away. It reappeared from a panel lower to the floor; she managed to nudge the spanner she had thrown at him.

"What?" John asked.

EOS nudged the spanner again, her lights turning yellow with frustration.

"You want me to pick it up?" he asked.

She moved the camera side to side. _No._ Then she nudged the spanner again.

"Do you want – OH! You want to help, don't you?"

Her lights went green and she 'nodded.' John chuckled, bent, and placed the spanner on top of the camera unit. Her lights flashed green, on and off, on and off. It was like she was laughing.

"Alright, EOS," John said around a chuckle. "Let's get to work."


	25. Chapter 25

**25\. Jolijah – Scarf**

It was a little lumpy in places with a dropped stitch here and there. But none of that mattered, John thought as he admired the handiwork with a lopsided smile.

"It's beautiful," he said.

Elijah's grin was worth the half-lie. His freckled face lit up like the Christmas tree and his cheeks turned nearly as a red as his hair.

"You don't have to wear it," he said. "Like, I know you're not going to be wearing a woolly scarf on a tropical island _anyway_ , but if you ever need a scarf, you can totally choose another one because –"

John silenced the babble with a kiss and pulled Elijah in for a squeeze.

"Of course I'll wear it," he said.

Then he pulled back and wrapped the scarf around his neck. The wool was soft and it smelled like Elijah – laundry detergent and _Redwood_ cologne.

"I just thought you might like something, I dunno, handmade and thoughtful?" Elijah looked away, green eyes flicking from side to side. "Like, what do you get the man who has everything?"

John unwound one end of the scarf and pulled Elijah into another embrace. He wound the scarf around them both and planted another kiss on the other man's lips. Elijah still had his ginger stubble and his breath smelled of coffee.

"I love it," John says.

That was not a lie. It might not have been the _prettiest_ scarf in the world – but it was the only one that was been made _just_ for John.

"Daddy! _Dadaí_!"

The two men were hit full-force by the whirlwind that is Lyra Tracy. Five years old with long blonde braids flying, she'd been up for three hours already – and was _very_ impressed with the junior scientist kit that 'Santa' brought (she knew he wasn't real but understood the need to keep up the pretence for Adam's sake). Her IQ was beyond anything a five year old should have had. Sometimes it was easy to forget how young she really was.

"Hey, little lady!"

John pulled her into the embrace and smiled as she pressed her face into the scarf.

"Daddy, do you like it?" she asked, her eyes bright as stars. "I helped _Dadai_ choose the colours. Look!"

She plucked up one end of the scarf and started to explain her sound reasoning – concise and logical. That was Lyra all over.

"Dark blue for the sky where you live sometimes. Green for _Dadai_ because it's the colour of his home. And purple for me!"

"Why purple?" John asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Because purple is my favourite!" Lyra said, puffing up with pride.

John chuckled and caught Elijah's eye. In that moment, sitting on the floor of their apartment in the Cliff House, with the fairy lights twinkling as the sun begins to rise, he felt more at home than ever before. He had got a family of his own now.

And then his heart skipped a little. Because there was another gift to be given. A kind of gift he had never given before.

"Lyra," John asked, "could you do me a favour? Will you get the package for _Dadai_ from me? It's underneath the rest of the presents."

"Okay!"

And off she went and John was certain she would come back with the right box. Because, five or not, she could already read fluently in English and French – and she was rapidly getting there in Irish and Malay, too.

Reluctantly, John unwound the scarf but kept it draped around his shoulders. Lyra returned within thirty second with the package. When Elijah saw it, his face went pale.

"Lyra, c'mere," John says.

With a grin as wide as the Golden Gate Bridge, the little girl clambered into John's lap. Because she knew what was about to happen. In fact, it was partly her idea.

It was a small box – so small that there was no huge surprise about what it contained. But Elijah hadn't seen it before, hidden deep within the mound of gifts under the fake fir.

"Elijah," John said, the box resting on the palm of one hand. "We've been together for nearly five years now and it's been the best five years of my life. In spite of everything that happened in the past, in spite of all the pain, you've stuck with me through it all. You mean more to me than I ever thought was possible. You, me and Lyra have become a little family."

On cue, Lyra grinned again. Elijah visibly swallowed.

"And, well, I thought that it was time we made it official. Please, open it."

With trembling hands, Elijah lifted the box. He unwound the shimmering blue paper with excruciating slowness. Then, he flipped open the velvet lid and his eyes threatened to spill over.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asked.

"Yes," John says, his voice thickening with emotion. "Elijah Patrick Peter Lynch, will you marry me?"

"Will you, _Dadai_? Will you?"

Elijah swallowed again as he plucked up the ring. The platinum band shone blue and green and purple in the fairy lights.

"There's a matching one," John said. "And another on a necklace for a certain someone. Because we're all in this together."

"Oh, lord," Elijah whispered. Then he looked up, his eyes bright. "Of course I'll marry you, John Eugene Tracy. _Of_ _course_ I will."


	26. Chapter 26

**26\. Scott – Punishment (2)**

 **NSFW. TW: Violence**

He's lost count of the strikes but there have been at least fifty. And, Scott thinks as he strains against the straps, there are going to be a lot more.

Where the Hood's lair is, he doesn't know. Regardless, that seems to be where he is. The leather whip in the bald-headed tyrant's hands creaks and strains. Then without warning, he brings it down on Scott's bare back again.

He doesn't make a sound.

He can see his blood dripping down his legs, onto his toes. Agony spirals out from the centre of his back and he bites down _hard_ as another chunk is sliced out of his flesh.

"You'll break eventually, you know," the Hood says, his voice as smooth and syrupy as molasses. "You might as well tell me what I want to know _now_ and spare yourself any further punishment."

"Never," Scott spits.

With a shriek of rage, the Hood brings the whip across his rear end, then lands another strike on his shoulders, then another and another and _another_.

"Tell me what I want to know!"

" _Never_."

And on and on it goes until Scott is nothing more than a lump of tattered skin. But his lips are sealed and they always will be. He takes each strike with pride, with dignity, even as he sees the curtain start to fall on his own life.

The pain is not the real punishment. The real punishment is knowing what he will miss, what he will leave behind.


	27. Chapter 27

**27\. Alan – Target**

"Try not to think about it too much. Don't hesitate. When you're ready to take the shot, take the shot."

Alan breathed in deeply and brought the gun up, just like Gordon had taught him. There wasn't much call for weapons on rescues – but in the same vein, there wasn't much call for Morse code either. And _that_ had certainly come in handy. So Scott had finally given way and let Alan start firearms training.

The Glock was smooth in his hand. It cradled well into the softness between his thumb and finger. Alan kept both eyes open, like Gordon had said. He breathed in, tried to align the sights, his finger hovering over the trigger. Then he pulled it in a little, just like Gordon said.

The recoil strained his back and he didn't dare to look down the range. Safety being his first concern, he ejected the magazine from the butt and laid the gun back on the table again. When he turned around, Gordon was grinning from ear to ear.

"Would you take a look at _that_?"

Alan glanced down the range and blinked. Then he blinked again.

"You did it, Al!"

"I did it…"

Sure enough, he had finally struck the target. They were fifteen meters away and he had hit it. On his _first day_. Letting out a whoop of joy, Alan held his hand up for a high-five. Gordon gladly acquiesced.

"Great shootin', Tex!" he said.

It wasn't in the centre; it was off to the top right. It didn't matter, though. He'd hit the target. And the sense of achievement was immense.


	28. Chapter 28

**28\. Scott and Virgil – Courage and Voiceless**

 _Cowards die many times before their deaths._

 _The valiant never taste of death but once._

 _\- Julius Caesar, Act II Sc II_

Neither Scott nor Virgil ever really thought about how dangerous their jobs could be. That thought in itself was dangerous and not something to dwell upon.

To the outside world, they were the mysterious heroes of International Rescue. They were the daring band that nothing seemed to faze. They were the ones who always came through in the end, the ones that always showed up just in time to save the day.

In the burning light of day, they screwed their courage and battled on. Nothing could stop them. Nothing would get in the way. Scott would leap from One and fly by jet pack and fling himself headlong into the raging fires of death and destruction with wanton abandon. Virgil would be cool and collected, always there with the right tools, always in the right place at the right time. They were symbols of courage, of the greatness of man.

But in the dead of night, slumped over the kitchen table and nursing tea or beer, the two brothers didn't say anything about it. Scott and Virgil never discussed the dangers. They didn't talk about their fears for themselves or each other or their brothers. Their meaning was voiceless. It didn't need to be said to be understood.

 _You nearly died today. I would have had to watch you lose your life. We're too young for this. We're all too young for this._

They didn't say a word because they feared, if anything was said aloud, it might come true. There's a thin line between being valiant and being stupid.

In real life, fortune doesn't always favour the bold.


	29. Chapter 29

**29\. Virgil – Bridle**

 _bridle: verb_

 _1\. put a bridle on (a horse)._

 _2\. show one's resentment or anger, especially by throwing up one's head and drawing in one's chin._

"That's it! I'm done with this."

It took a lot to anger Virgil to the point where he had to walk away. Right now, though, the teen had had _enough_. He threw down his pencil, threw up his head and glared at his two younger brothers.

"Stop making so much _noise_."

Gordon and Alan did stop for a moment. Their not-quite-teenagers-yet mouths fell open in dual looks of shock.

"But _Virg_ ," Gordon said, his tone a mixture of exasperation and confusion. "We're having _fun_."

Letting out a roar of irritation, Virgil spun on his heel and marched out of the living room, through the back door – letting the screen door swing wildly – down the freshly painted farmhouse steps and all the way over to the tyre swing.

He threw himself into it and hung there for a while, his boots digging circles in the ground. It wasn't their fault. He knew that. They were young and having fun – and now that he'd turned fifteen, Virgil felt like he was as old as the moon. Nothing seemed to make sense any more. Nothing seemed to be worthwhile.

After a while – though Virgil wasn't sure how long exactly – he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He allowed the momentum of the rope to swing him around. There was Scott, resplendent in his letterman jacket and jeans that were ripped at the knees.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Virgil replied.

Scott chuckled at his despondent tone and Virgil felt his hackles rise again. It was alright for Scott, star of the track team, 4.0 GPA, beloved of all who knew him, who was going to disappear off to Yale in a few weeks.

"Whatever," Virgil said, letting the tyre swing back around again.

"Now, hold on there," Scott said. He put a hand on the tyre and pulled Virgil back around. "What's up with you?"

"Stuff," was all Virgil could manage. "Just stuff."

"Ah, _stuff_ ," Scott said loftily. "I remember _stuff_ so well. High school, homework, girls, football –"

"You never played football," Virgil groused.

It didn't break Scott's stride.

"– pimples, living up to expectations. _Stuff_ is pretty terrible, bro. I get it."

Still feeling sour, Virgil folded his arms, still hanging in the tyre.

"John doesn't seem to be having many problems," he said.

Scott put one scruffy Chuck up on the tyre and shrugged.

"John's an alien," he said. "Don't use him as an example. Now, c'mon Virg. How about we go get some pizza?"

His mood immediately lifted by the thought of four types of cheese and a stuffed crust, Virgil raised an eyebrow.

"Just the two of us?" he asked.

Chuckling, Scott placed his foot back on the ground and smiled.

"Just the two of us. John can look after the babies. He won't mind as long as we promise to bring him back a slice or two."

Slowly, Virgil slid out of the swing and followed his older brother back towards the farmhouse. While Scott went in to tell John of their plans, Virgil hopped into the electrocar and grinned.

Simple pleasures.


	30. Chapter 30

**30\. Virgil and Kayo – Pencil**

He'd tried everything to get her likeness just right. Gouache, oil paint, watercolours, oil pastels, chalk pastels, charcoal, acrylics. But nothing seemed to work. Nothing seemed to show her in the right light.

Kayo was a funny sort of woman – in the most respectful way possible, of course. She was beauty and grace but she could also knock you out with one clean punch. Virgil knew from first-hand experience – not that he liked to think about that one particular training session too much.

How could he show her strength and her resilience at the same time as the exquisiteness of her jawline and the delicate sweep of her nose? Her features seemed at odds with one another – just like Kayo herself.

Virgil had never spoken to her about it but he sensed that there was an unease inside her. It was like something didn't sit right within her, like she had some kind of weight bearing down on her back. If only she would say something. If only she would _tell_ them. Doubtless, Virgil would be able to help take the strain. But it's hard to hold something that you can't see.

Eventually, he stripped everything way back. He stopped trying to be fancy with his media and instead of a paint or a pastel, he picked up a pencil.

Just the one – a 2B, not too hard and not too soft. And he set to work when she wasn't looking, drawing the sweeping lines of her hair and shading the darkness of her eyes.

He showed it to her when she was done. He said it was one of the best portraits he'd ever done. And he was right.

She took it from him with a quivering lip and she had _hugged_ him.

"Thank you, Virgil. That's the loveliest thing anyone has done for me."

He never went into her room but he knew it was there, perched on the dresser – a pencil portrait of Kayo, always smiling.


	31. Chapter 31

**31\. John – Puncture**

That was it. It was over. He was never going to recover from this one…

"John! Don't worry. I'm coming!"

Gorgeous Alan, the best of them all… He didn't need to see this. He didn't need to see his brothers hopes and dreams slip away…

Pulling up with a skid, Alan's rear bike wheel sent a cloud of dust right into John's face. He spluttered as his lungs were invaded and his eyes were assaulted. Streams of tears slid down his dirt-coated cheeks.

"Oops," Alan said. "Sorry, bro."

Bicycle bells rang, accompanied by shouts of irritation. Alan helped his stricken brother wrench his bike off the track. Together, they stared down at its remains. The rear wheel was punctured, the tyre flat as a pancake.

John rubbed his stinging eyes with the back of his cycling gloves and blinked as the world swirled back into technicolour.

"Can we pump it up?" Alan asked.

Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew what the answer was.

"I think we're beyond that, Allie," John said. "I think I'm out of the game."

Those words felt like knives as they slipped out of his mouth. This wasn't just a bike race. The race part wasn't even part of his irritation. What was breaking his heart was the knowledge that if he didn't finish, the five thousand dollars he had raised for the Worldwide Suicide Prevention Fund would be lost.

"Dammit," he ground out. "I can't believe I got a puncture. I can't drag this thing around the rest of the track. There's still five miles to go."

Alan bit his lip; John raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes!"

"Alan, this isn't -"

"It doesn't matter what it 'isn't,'" Alan said, his face so pulled and stern. "It's about what it 'is': important. Now hop on!"

"Alan, I don't -"

"Just trust me, John," he said. "Please."

How could he say no to that? Alan straddled his bike, one foot on the ground, and John perched on the seat, his arms wrapped around his brother's waist.

"Okay - Thunderbirds are GO!"

And off they went, straight down a hill, John's punctured bike languishing in the tall grass. But his hopes and dreams went with him - all courtesy of his littlest brother.


	32. Chapter 32

**32\. Gordon/Penny – Pearl**

The pearl: symbolic of purity, generosity, integrity, loyalty. Those are the things Penelope thinks about as she places the necklace around her neck. She doesn't think about them because of the symbolism, though. No, she thinks about those things because they are the embodiment of the man who gave her that pearl.

Indeed, the one who dove for it, who cracked the oyster open with his own hands, who commissioned a tiny little cage to keep the pearl in. Who threaded it onto the finest silver chain and who gave it to her for her thirtieth birthday.

"For you," Gordon had said as he pressed the box into her hand. "It's pure and perfect and I was lucky to find it – just like I was lucky to find you."

Penelope lets the peal in its little cage sit on her skin. The chain trails over her collarbone. The peal nestles just above her breasts. It sits to the left, and that, she thinks, is the best place for it. Hovering close to her heart, never far from it.

Just like Gordon. He might be halfway round the world and out of sight. But he would never be out of her heart. Ever.


	33. Chapter 33

**33\. Virgil – Chalk**

When he was five, Virgil's mother bought him a set of jumbo chalks. Seven pastel colours, each bigger than his whole hand. Even as an adult, he can still remember the feel of the dust on his fingers, the taste of it when he accidently licked the back of his hand.

He can remember the beating heat of the summer sun as he plucked each chalk out, one by one, and started colouring the clapboard walls of the ranch house.

A doodle of Scott riding a dinosaur. A scribble of John with a mass of orange hair, and something akin to an 'a' that was probably supposed to be a telescope.

The stickman with a swollen stomach that was supposed to be his mother when she was carrying Gordon. She's taken pictures of his doodles. They're probably still in an album somewhere, nestling in a cardboard box or covered in dust.

The flaking white-paint exterior of the Tracy farmhouse had been Virgil's first canvas. He'd cried when the rains washed his work away. But, as his mother said as she picked him up and kissed his puffy cheeks, it meant the walls were clean again. That meant a blank canvas, a chance to start over.

Virgil worked those chalks down to a nub that year. It was the start of a journey he'd be walking all his life. Art became his soul.


	34. Chapter 34

**34\. Matthew and Elijah – Accident**

"I didn't mean to do it, Mattie. I swear to god, I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't mean it, you bone head!"

The only reaction Matthew can have is anger. Because he's cradling his twin's bleeding body in his arms, desperately trying to keep his life from slipping through his fingers.

Elijah's hand is balled in Matthew's uniform. The fabric is turning purple with blood. His chest is heaving and his eyes are rolling and Matthew presses his hands against the gaping wound in his brother's side.

"Mattie, I didn't mean it. Please believe me. Believe me, Mattie!"

In that moment, Matthew knows that Elijah isn't really here anymore. He's gone back in time in his mind, back to when he was nine and that _bastard_ took away his sanity with one unbuckled belt and a pair of dropped jeans.

" _It wasn't my fault!_ "

He screaming and Matthew is pressing into his abdomen and John's voice is coming over the comm. and there's still a rescue going on and _Please don't leave me, Eli. Please!_

"Elijah, don't go!" Matthew says and he's sick at the sound of his own voice. "I can't do this without you." There are tears running into his mouth. "I need you. I don't function without you. _Please_."

But his twin isn't talking back any longer and all Matthew can do is press Eli's face into his chest and rock and sob and _Oh, God!_

Then Virgil is there and he's pulling Elijah from Matt's steely grasp – and then he's doing _something_ and suddenly Matthew a spike of hope.

Three weeks later, he buys Virgil the biggest box of chocolates he can find on the mainland. Because Elijah is out of hospital. He's going to be fine. And so is Matthew.

He'll always be fine as long as they're together.


	35. Chapter 35

**35\. Virgil – Obey**

"Do as you are told and no one gets hurt."

Virgil knows that isn't true. He knows it's a lie. Poison words from a liar's mouth. Because he could hear Scott screaming in the next room over. He can see the blood on the Hood's whip. He can already feel the lashes that are about to grace his back.

"I'll never talk," he says. "I'd rather die."

With a glint of teeth, the Hood brings the whip down on his back. The pain is white hot and stings like acid. Then it's followed by another and another and _another_ and _Christ, don't let Scott down_.

That's all he can think about. Scott's screams. His defiance. Under torture, he was the living embodiment of everything their father taught them.

"Never give up at _any cost_."

So he won't. He'll never give up. He'll take every lash. He'll race the Hood to the gates of Hell and back again and he still won't give in.

There is one thing that's threatening to break him, though.

The lack of noise from the next room over.


	36. Chapter 36

**36\. John and Penny – Bruise**

He's got a bruise the size and colour of an apple on his left shin. That was all Penny could stare at as he walked by. She was lounging by the pool, shaded by the soft fabric of the cabana. She shook her head and set her book aside. Clad only in a pair of swimming shorts, the difficulties of readjusted to life on earth were painted across John's canvas.

"John, I really rather think you ought to wear some knee and elbow pads – and perhaps a helmet to boot!"

He stopped in his tracks and turned, grinning from behind his wide-rimmed sunglasses.

"Maybe," he said.

He had marks all over his pale skin, ranging from the darkest of reds to the lightest sheen of green.

"You really are peppered!" Penny said.

Instead of heading to the pool as he had intended, John doubled back and sat on the lounger nearest to the cabana.

"It's hard to remember that gravity exists sometimes," he said. Then he sat up straighter and gave a perplexed laugh. "Now that sounds weird."

Penny chuckled and smiled.

"Actually, it doesn't," she said. "It's sort of like jet lag, I suppose. Your body needs time to adjust to the new rhythm."

"I guess that's a good way of looking at it," John said. "I just wish it wasn't so painful!"


	37. Chapter 37

**37\. Alan – Flesh**

He's poking his abdomen to feel the hard muscles beneath. _Yup, they're there._ Then he pinches his skin and pulls, making a tent on his stomach. He lets it go and the skin snaps back into place.

Flesh is _weird_ , Alan thinks as he pokes at himself again. Skin is a strange thing. Bodies are _awesome_.

Each of his brothers is different. Alan has never deliberately sat down and looked at his brothers' bodies but when he thinks about it, they're all unique.

Scott is long and lean and has the fluidity of a noodle. He's kind of, well, _loosey-goosey_ , as Grandma might have said. Sometimes, Alan wonders if Scott is really Stretch Armstrong. All elastic and bouncy and impossible to break.

Virgil is all muscle. He's built like a brick sh- _house_ and sturdy as an ox. He's kind of a cross between a grizzly bear and a toasted marshmallow. He's got the sort of build that Alan aspired to, for there would be nothing to be ashamed of with a body like that. Alan prodded his stomach again.

Gordon is something altogether special. He has that swimmer's build, all lean muscle and streamlined plains of tanned skin. He's short, compact – it seems as though there's not a part of him that's extraneous. Every ounce of skin and muscle is exactly as it should be.

John is suited to his environment. Living in weightlessness, he's almost become weightless himself. Just like Gordon, there's not a part of him that's extra, that's unnecessary.

And Alan? Quite what he is has not been set just yet. He's still growing, stretching, filling out his skin with flesh and bone. And however he ends up, he just hopes he'll be content.


	38. Chapter 38

**38\. John, Lyra and Amelia – Tapestry**

John never expected to have a daughter. He never expected to have kids, _period_. It wasn't for him. Not his thing. No way. Nuh-uh.

And yet now he has two.

Lyra might be the only biological daughter he has but, ever since their terrible ordeal in that house of horrors, John has felt a strange affection for her. He feels for Amelia what he feels for Lyra. All he wants to do is protect her.

It makes sense to treat Amelia like family because of course, she is Lyra's half-sister. And John had lived with her for nearly a year. He had made her breakfast, sat with her through awkward dinner times, helped her with her homework – English, math, physics, Spanish, French. Though of course, art and design was beyond him. John smirks as he remembers his pathetic attempt at papier-mâché. That was the first time she smiled in his presence. If it had been that simple, he would have tried to sculpt a duck many months before.

They're halfway around the world from one another now. In different hemispheres, living disparate lives. And yet he still tries to be a part of her life. He's helped her with her college applications, encouraged her to apply to Oxford, to _Harvard_. Because since she broke free from the shackles of her mother, Amelia has blossomed into something special. It is as though fourteen years of crawling, of abuse, has stripped away her worries. Now, she fears nothing, sees no barriers, works twice as hard as anyone else in her class.

John's said that if she gets into Harvard of Oxford or whatever university she wants, he'll pay. He'll cover all the costs of tuition, of textbooks and accommodation and as many flights back and forth as she wants. For as much as her cousin Georgie can provide a lot, she's can't afford _that_. But John can. And he feels that it's his duty. He's the closest thing to a father that she has.

It's a strange thing, having daughters. It's a strange thing having daughters in two hemispheres, on opposite sides of the world. It's a strange thing to think of family beyond just his father and brothers and grandmother. Now they're John and Lyra and Amelia – and Elijah. And Georgie. All from different places, all with different experiences.

But somehow, they're tied to one another – like a tapestry, threads winding and binding them together, never to be broken apart.


	39. Chapter 39

**39\. Scott and Virgil – Fireworks**

"Light it, Scooter! Light it!"

He's old enough now. For the first year, Scott has been allowed to light the first July Fourth firework. They're all watching but it's Virgil's face he's focusing on.

Virgil _loves_ fireworks more than anything else. He loves the sizzle of the fuse as it catches light. He loves the _whoosh_ as the rocket shoots off and the anticipation as they wait for the explosion.

And then it comes, the _boom_ that resounds deep within his chest.

So Scott lights the fuse, starts the process – and he doesn't look at the firework. He watches Virgil's face, the expression of pure joy, the smile that bursts across his face, and that is so much more impressive than the blue and green explosion above them.

Which is why, late that night, when Virgil creeps into his room and whispers, _One more, Scooter?_ – Scott is unable to say no.

He knows it's stupid. He knows it's dangerous. He knows it's making mischief and that their father won't be pleased. But in spite of this, he creeps down the stairs – avoiding the creaking floorboard at the bottom – and they disappear into the yard, silent as smoke.

"Light it, Scooter! Light it!"

And so Scott does – and as soon as the firework explodes in the air and sends shooting stars across the sky, his father's bedroom light flicks on and he knows that he's in for it.

But the _grin_ on Virgil's face makes the imminent lecture worth it.


	40. Chapter 40

**40\. Scott and Virgil – Salt**

 _"_ _No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his well-being, to risk his body, to risk his life, in a great cause."_

 _\- Theodore Roosevelt_

They know they are going to die. Because there is no other way. There is no other choice.

Together, they lie in agony and despair. They have been beaten but not broken. Never broken.

"I hope we've proved we're worth our salt," Virgil says.

The words are a struggle. Every sound seems to sap more and more of his energy. His voice is distorted by shivers, for they have been stripped of all clothing and there is no heat in this dank cell.

All they have for warmth is straw and each other. So they huddle together in the filth and it doesn't matter that they're naked – all that matters is that they're there for one another and that they haven't given up.

Scott struggles to rise, his shoulder grinding into Virgil's.

"We've certainly proved ourselves," he says. "Dad would be proud."

That thought warms Virgil ever so slightly. It makes the agony, the trauma, the _despair_ a little more bearable.

Jeff Tracy would never give up. His sons have no intention of it, either.

Then there's a _clunk_. A key turning. The cell door opens and he's there again, silhouetted against the impossible brightness of the light outside.

"Ready for more?" that gravelly voice asks.

"The only time we won't be ready," Scott says as he straightens, squinting at the figure, "is when we're dead."

And Virgil knows that he can go on until the end. If Scott doesn't break, neither will he. If needed, they'll take their secrets to the grave.

It's what their dad would have done.


	41. Chapter 41

**41\. Jayo – Smoke and Remedy**

It's been a bad day. A very bad day. All Kayo can think about is her uncle, his brutal face, his sneer.

It makes her want to punch things. But she doesn't. Because John's down from Five and she doesn't want to waste their precious evening together in a foul temper.

Instead, she digs into the ornate box she keeps her incense in and pulls out a cone. It's Tibetan, nothing synthetic, and it's the only thing that will be a remedy for her rage. John will be in any minute. And she doesn't want to let her anger consume her. So instead, she lights the cone and watches the tip smoulder. Then the smoke starts to rise, tall and straight, and she simply _breathes_.

Sandalwood reminds her of good times. It reminds her of her father, long dead but still in her heart. It reminds her of her mother, also gone but never forgotten. It's a smell that's pure and simple, homely and reassuring.

It also reminds her of John.

He's light and delicate as smoke and when he's around, he envelops her, invades every pore of her being until as she can think of his _him_. His arms encircle her, his touch soft yet strong, and his lips are on her neck, ghosting kisses up to her earlobe.

And all at once, it doesn't seem like such a bad day after all.


	42. Chapter 42

**42\. Jayo – Altar**

 **NSFW.**

She is his everything. John would do anything for Kayo. If she asked if she could kill him, he would gladly let her. Anything she wants, he would give her – even his life.

John has never been a sexual man. He doesn't experience the extremes of desire that he's seen in other men. Before Kayo, sex was something he didn't want to do. There was nothing about the sweaty, pulsing rhythm that appealed to him.

With Kayo, it's different. It's not that he _desires_ her body. It's that he desires to be _had_ by her. Kayo is forceful, controlling. She knows what she wants. She knows what she needs. John is more than happy to hand himself over to her, to submit to her every whim. She can tie him in knots and bend him backwards and silence him or force him to scream.

She can put him on her altar and sacrifice him to the gods. It doesn't matter.

He'd let her take his life and still smile. She is his everything. Nothing will ever change that.


	43. Chapter 43

**43\. John – Scarf and Remedy**

One of the worst things in the world is having the flu. And if there's one thing John Tracy knows, it's how to catch the flu.

It has everything to do with spending ninety per cent of his time in a hermetically sealed environment. He sometimes wonders if the bugs and germs are waiting for him when he comes home. It's as if they have their own little bacterial and viral communication system.

 _THE ORANGE ONE IS COMING. WE MUST GREET HIM._

And so they do. And so he gets sick.

Lying in bed and feeling as sorry for himself as ever he has in his life, John huddles under the covers like a grumpy child. His joints ache and his head is throbbing and he has the approximate energy level of a dead sloth. He's shivering and sweating – and that shouldn't even be _possible_. But it's happening and all he wants is for it to stop.

He peers up as his bedroom door opens.

"Good evening," Virgil says.

"It's the evening alright," John says, his voice hardly more than a croak, "but I'm not sure about the good part."

Virgil has his hands behind his back but John doesn't have the energy for guessing. Thankfully, Virgil seems to sense this. He reveals his gift with a flourish and John can't help but smile.

"Voila!" Virgil says. "Something to make you feel better."

John can't help but smile. Virgil comes to the side of the bed and helps him sit up – and then wraps the soft scarf around his neck.

It's grey and a little bobbled from years of use. It's soft as ever, though, and the comfort it brings is immense.

It's the scarf he gave Virgil when they went off to separate colleges – John to Harvard and Virgil to MIT. It's the scarf that Virgil mailed him when he caught mono in his second semester. It's the scarf that they shared for years, the scarf that bound them together even when they were miles apart.

"Thanks, Virg," John said.

"No problem," Virgil said, softly landing a bear-like paw on John's shoulder.

Finally, John is able to drop off to sleep, safe in the embrace of the scarf – a fool proof remedy for always and forever.


	44. Chapter 44

**44\. Virgil - Guilt**

It was _crushing_ him. It was following him around like a putrid smell. He was sure everyone would be able to tell.

 _Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!_

What was he to do? He couldn't run. No, they would only find him. He couldn't try to undo the damage, for they would see right through the charade.

Virgil took a deep breath and straightened his back. No running. No cover-ups. It was simply time to be a man about it. It was time to admit what he had done. It was time to face the consequences.

Just as he was about to leave, Scott appeared in the kitchen. His whistles were out of tune but the bounce in his step made Virgil gulp.

"Oh boy, I've been looking forward to this all day."

Then he opened the refrigerator and, as he was bathed in the harsh light, he became very still.

Virgil swallowed again. _Oh, god…_

At first, Scott spoke so softly that Virgil couldn't make out the words. Then in a fit of anger, Scott slammed the door closed and spun on his heel, locking his blue eyes on his brother.

"Where is my pie?" he asked.

Sweat was beading on Virgil's forehead. Hot flashes coursed through him. It was time. This was his chance to come clean.

 _Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!_

When he spoke, the words came out all wrong.

"I think I saw Alan with it."

No! That was not what he meant to say. But out the words came and they slithered into Scott's ears.

"He is _dead_ ," he snarled.

Then Scott was gone, charging like a bull, leaving a perplexed Virgil in his wake.

"What just happened?" he asked.

But there was no response.

And somewhere deep in the villa, he heard a screech. Virgil winced. _Sorry, Alan…_


	45. Chapter 45

**45\. Scott - Obey**

"Just hold on, Scott. Please, hold on."

He is trying his best to comply. He can't see any more; his eyelids feel crusty. It's some kind of gunk. Or maybe blood. He isn't sure but at the same time he doesn't care. It's not important. All that matters is doing as he's told.

He has no idea how long they've been the Hood's captives. He has no comprehension of what time it is, what day, what month. Hell, not even what _year_ it is. Even though he's sure it hasn't been that long, it feels like he and Virgil have been at the mercy of this monster for decades.

Slowly but steadily, he is going downhill. He knows he won't last much longer. He's got so many wounds now and he can smell the infection. He's rotting away, still alive to feel the pain.

Virgil's holding up pretty well. But Scott's not surprised. Virgil has always been the ox of the family. He'll just keep going and going. Wasn't there an old ad campaign for batteries along those lines? Not an ox but a rabbit…or something? He doesn't know. The ability to make coherent thoughts is leaving him as each second ticks by.

He's not even worried about his fate anymore. Scott Tracy has decided that if he has to die, he'll go down with his mouth firmly shut. He hasn't given in yet and he has grand plans for his final words.

If he's with the Hood, it'll be something along the lines of, "FUCK YOU."

If he's with Virgil, it'll be more like a softly spoken, "I love you, brother."

He's rehearsed both parts in his mind. Eventually, whoever is writing the story in which he must die will decide whether he lives or he dies. And Scott wants to be prepared either way.

Virgil's not ready to let him go yet, though. When he speaks again, Scott can hear the tears in his voice.

"Just hold on, Scott. _Please_ , hold on."

 _Okay, Virg_ , he thinks. _I'll try… Just for you._

He can't speak. But he gropes in the darkness and finds Virgil's arm. He squeezes with as much strength as he has left in his wasted arm. He hopes that's enough of an answer. It's all that he can manage.


	46. Chapter 46

**46\. Virgil - Surface**

He can see himself in the reflection of the piano. It's gleaming, polished to perfection as always. Virgil doesn't want to mark it. He doesn't want to mar the perfection of the surface. He doesn't want to disfigure its perfection.

And yet he sits on the bench and he cracks his knuckles. And then he starts to play because that's what the piano is for. It's not a decoration. It's a huge part of his life – his very existence.

The best thing about playing, Virgil thinks as his fingers glide over the keys, is that he can express himself in ways otherwise impossible. On a small island with only his family for company, it's not always easy to say what he really thinks. There are too many ears than can mishear. There are too many mouths than can pass on his words inaccurately. Then it all comes full circle and _someone_ ends up getting hurt.

But with the piano, it's different. No one can misinterpret his emotions. They can't interfere with his mood. Whether it's _Ambre_ or _Harvest_ or _Für Elise_ , no one can misinterpret.

Music is a universal language. It surpasses grammar and spelling and syntax. It's far more simple and yet far more complex than that. Every note can touch a person's heart or their soul. No translation is needed. Music is something all people naturally understand.

And so Virgil doesn't worry about getting fingerprints on the piano's surface. Instead, he simply plays. And through those keys, he is able to say more than he ever could with words.


	47. Chapter 47

**47\. Alan and John - Galaxy**

"So, John, how big is the galaxy, anyway? No, scratch that. How big is the _universe_?"

Sitting in the sunken living area, John looks over at Alan. There is no trace of sarcasm in his voice. That was more Gordon's style, though he would have phrased the question along the lines of, "So, John, is the universe expanding at a fast enough rate to outrun the growth of your ego?" A question that John, of course, would have totally ignored.

No. Alan is not Gordon. He wants a genuine answer to the question. So John thinks for a moment.

He could give the scientific answer. On earth, astronomers can peer 13.8 billion light-years in every direction, giving an observable sphere of 28 billion light-years in diameter. But that isn't the actual size of the universe is, John knows. What they perceive as 13.8 billion light-years from Earth at the time of the Big Bang would really be 46 billion light-years _at present_. Thus, the diameter of the observable universe is a sphere of around 92 billion light-years. And that's just the _observable_ universe. What about the rest that they cannot see?

Somehow, John doesn't think this is the sort of answer Alan wants. It's not that his kid brother wouldn't understand the science. Of course he could. Alan's outstripped all of them in terms of his intelligence at such a young age. When he's older – if he attends to his studies – John has no doubt he will rival his own intellect.

John shifts in his chair and brings his knees up to his chin. He sits back and stares up at the ceiling. Then Alan is right beside him, bobbing up and down like a concerned puppy.

"John? What's wrong? Did I say something, I dunno, _dumb_ or something?"

"No, Alan," John says.

He's looking at the ceiling but that's not what he's seeing. Still uneasy, Alan mimics his brother's body language and stares up.

"What are we looking at?" he asks.

John chuckles.

"Whatever you want. Anything," he says. "Because in this one direction, going on for billions of light-years, is an uncountable number of objects. An uncountable number of possibilities. All you can see is the roof, maybe even the little specks of dust floating in the air. But if you concentrate and look _really_ hard, you can see in your mind's eye all of the possibilities of the universe. Along this line of sight there are planets and stars and maybe even ships and creatures that we have no comprehension of."

John sneaks a glance to the side and he can see that Alan _gets_ it.

"Ooh," he whispers.

And John knows that those blue eyes are filled with visions of exotic planets and peoples and star ships that sail through the whole galaxy.

"So," John says as he unwinds his long legs and sits upright again. "How big is the galaxy? How big is the universe?"

It's his usual tactic. Why give the answer when he can get Alan to figure it out for himself?

"Limitless," Alan breathes.

And John nods.

"Limitless," he repeats. "And that's why I love it so much."


	48. Chapter 48

**48\. Alan and Scott – Courage**

 _"_ _Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I'll try again tomorrow."_

 _\- Mary Anne Radmacher_

Alan hadn't been in a good place a whole day. Scott ran a hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. He hadn't even complained about being left behind in reserve when an emergency call had dome through earlier that day. _That_ was how bad things were. But enough was enough now, as far as Scott was concerned. It was time to find out exactly what it was about.

Scott had a good idea already, though it was just supposition. Or intuition. Whatever. Either way (or neither way), it was clear to see that Alan's last outing on a rescue had rattled him.

Not bothering to knock, Scott opened the door to his littlest brother's room. And he stopped in the doorway. There was no one there.

"Alan?" he asked.

No answer.

"I could have sworn he was in here," he said. Then he activated his holo watch. "John, can you get me a fix on Alan's position?"

Appearing in blue light, John frowned.

"Scott, he's within a meter of you. How can you not see him?"

Turning in a circle, Scott scoured the surroundings. How _could_ he not see? Then it all became clear as his eyes settled on the door to Alan's closet.

"I think I've solved the mystery, John," he said. "I'll call you back later."

With a flick, John's hologram disappeared. Scott reached out and laid a hand on the closet door's handle. Slowly, he turned it. And inside, he found exactly what he was looking for.

"Alan, why are you hiding in the closet?"

There was no immediate response. Scott couldn't actually see his little brother but there was movement underneath the pillows and sheets that had been constructed into a little nest – or more accurately, a blanket fort.

"Go away," came the muffled response.

Scott rolled his eyes and got down on his hunkers.

"No," he said. "Now are you going to let me in or not?"

There was a brief pause.

"Only if you know the password."

Without missing a beat, Scott replied.

"' _Gordon smells like feet_.'"

After another brief pause, the 'door' of the fort was flung open and Scott crawled in.

"How did you know?" Alan asked.

"Alan, you've been using that as the password to your blanket forts for years."

As he took in the interior, Scott nodded in approval.

"Not bad," he said. "A little structurally unsound but at least you're covered on the snack front."

Reaching out, he snagged a cookie – store bought, of course. Alan frowned but his heart wasn't in it. After swallowing the last of the treat, Scott cocked his head to the side.

"What's up, squirt?" he asked.

Alan opened his mouth and closed it again. Scott waited.

"Well," Alan said at length. "I just… I screwed up, Scott! I really screwed up on that rescue."

"How so?" Scott asked, though he knew what Alan was referring to.

"I choked," Alan said. "I didn't move fast enough and Virgil had to come in and safe my butt – and those people, too. I was so scared, Scott." His words were so earnest and raw that Scott found himself swallowing against a lump in his own throat. "I just froze up and I couldn't close the carabineer and – I'm a coward, Scott! I'm just no good!"

"Whoa, stop right there," Scott said, holding up a hand. "Honestly, stop. You can't beat yourself up over this. Yes, you were scared. Yes, you didn't react fast enough. But Alan, it was your third rescue. You can't expect to know everything, to be able to do everything right away."

Alan gulped and looked away.

"But that's not even it, Scott," he said. "That's not what's bothering me."

"So what is it?" Scott asked, his tone whisper soft.

"It's just…" In the dim light of the dynamo lantern Alan had been using to read by, Scott could see tears brimming in his brother's eyes. "I don't know if I can go back out there again." His words were so low that Scott could barely hear them. "What if Virgil isn't there next time? What if… What if I screw up and someone _dies_?" Giving a little self-depreciating snort, Alan continued. "It's not something I expect _you_ to understand."

Scott shifted onto his knees and sighed.

"Alan," he said. "Believe it or not, I do understand."

Eyes agog, it was Alan's turn to tilt his head.

"What?"

Scott nodded and shrugged.

"I do understand," he said. "I totally get it. You're worried that you'll make a colossal fuck up and someone will pay for your mistake. You're afraid of letting yourself down, of letting others down… Of letting _Dad_ down."

Alan's mouth formed into a little 'o' and he nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly it."

Scott reached out and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. His head brushed against the pastel roof of the blanket fort.

"It's okay to be scared," he said. "It doesn't make you a coward. What shows real courage is the ability to pick yourself back up after a mistake and try again. And again and again and again. Because only cowards give up."

Alan looked away for a moment. Scott could see the cogs in his brains whirring as he processed the information.

"We all get scared," Scott continued. "Some of us show it more than others," he added with a chuckle, remembering Gordon's various yells and shrieks of panic. They were short lived, though. A simple reaction to stimulus and not a reflection of a lack of bravery. "But we all get scared. It's just a case of learning how to live with the fear and make it work for you."

"How?" Alan asked.

Scott had to stop to think about that one.

"I'm not sure how exactly," he said. "It's just a case of getting back on the horse after you've toppled off and just trying again."

He withdrew his hand and snagged a cookie on the way. Alan chuckled and reached for one of his own.

"I guess you're right," he said. "I just… Sometimes it's so hard to try to live up to all you guys. You all seem to perfect and so – I dunno, in control or something."

"It's all an illusion," Scott said around the cookie. "Every one of us has our fears and worries. Did you know that Virgil is scared to death of spiders?"

"No he isn't!" Alan protested. "He squishes them all the time."

"True," Scott said, "but he's worked really hard to get over the phobia. He's still scared of them, though."

Raising an eyebrow, Alan picked up the cookie packet and offered Scott another.

"So what else do I need to know about my so-called brave brothers?"

Accepting the bribe, Scott made himself comfortable by snagging one of the pillows from the back wall of the fort.

"My dear Alan," he said, "there are so many things to tell. I might need more than a few cookies."

"I'll order pizza – straight to the fort if needed. So spill!"

Chuckling, Scott popped another cookie in his mouth.

"Did you know that John suffers from omphalophobia?"

Making a face, Alan shook his head.

"And what's _that_ when it's at home?" he asked.

Scott grinned.

"A fear of belly buttons."

Alan's mouth hung open.

"Shut the front door!" he said. "No way!"

"It's true," Scott said. "Why do you think he prefers it when people wear shirts at the pool?"

Sitting back on his cushions, Alan made a pyramid with his hands.

"It all makes sense now…" He sat forward again. "Tell me more!"

And Scott gladly acquiesced, for there was nothing better than seeing the sparkle back in his little brother's eyes. _The guys will forgive me for spilling their secrets,_ he thought. _Probably!_


	49. Chapter 49

**49\. John – Navel**

He knew it was irrational. He knew it was _weird_. But he had always known there was little he could do about it.

From a young age, John Tracy had suffered from a most strange fear. Omphalophobia: the fear of navels.

His hands fluttered over his stomach. It was there, hiding under the folds of his faded t-shirt. Silent. A permanent reminder of one very fateful day.

John had always been a little freaked out about navels. Or belly buttons. The description irritated him more than he could say. It didn't even make sense! It wasn't a button. If you pressed it – not that John ever would – nothing would happen. It _wasn't a_ _button_. Regardless of whether you called it a navel or a button, he had never like the look of them or the feel of them.

One day, though, things changed. On that day, beer had been an enemy. He had never made any good decisions under its influence. Had anyone?

" _It'll be fine, Johnny!_ "

" _You need to face your fears, right?_ "

" _C'mon! You're a grown-ass man. Let's do it!_ "

His fellow Harvard alumni had decided that, as a _true_ graduation, Tracy needed to face his final fear. Either that or they were going to throw their valedictorian in the Charles River. In the haze of alcohol, John had chosen the former. It was the better of the two choices, right?

The next morning when he woke, an excruciating pain in his head was not the only agony he faced. There was something else, too. Something… _wrong_.

With the slowest of movements, he lifted the sheet from his naked torso and looked down.

And then his stomach rebelled.

"What the _fuck_ have you done to me?" he yelled loud enough to wake all of his hungover compatriots.

Now, John lay in bed, his hands fluttering over his stomach. For the longest time afterwards, he had barely been able to look at himself, and certainly didn't want to touch it. However, he couldn't cope with the idea of some kind of infection. So he had to touch it. He had to clean it.

He had to _look_ at it.

Like a rubbernecker at a car crash, like the people of old who watched executions. Fear or not, he had to look at it. He had to face his fear.

Edging his t-shirt up just enough to reveal his abdomen, John smiled. There was the reason. There was the way he had managed to overcome his irrational fear – even if he had done it under duress and in a most unconventional way.

Lingering in his navel was evidence of one night and a decision he had thought was a mistake.

A piercing – a belly button ring. And on the end of it? A sapphire star.

He touched it with one finger and smiled. Omphalophobia: the fear of navels. Another fear overcome; another mountain conquered.


	50. Chapter 50

**50\. John and Kayo – Scarf**

"You were a Boy Scout?"

The level of incredulousness in Kayo's voice makes John roll his eyes. Why had he agreed to this again?

"Yes, Kay. I was a Boy Scout."

They're going through the boxes he has in storage deep within the island's underground tunnel system. And Kayo is holding his old unit scarf in her hands. It's blue and green and the woggle is still holding the two twisted ends together.

Kayo turns it over in her hands.

"You never mentioned it before," she says.

John shrugs.

"I've also never mentioned that I took a semester of cookery in high school." At her single raised eyebrow, John folds his arms. "Well, someone had to learn how to feed us something that wasn't burned to a crisp."

Kayo laughs and it makes John smile. She doesn't laugh often so when she does, it's like music to his ears. It's even better when they're actually together, occupying the same _planet_ , never mind the same space.

"So what else have you not told me?" she asks.

John taps his chin and waves a hand.

"Did I ever mention that I was valedictorian of my class at Harvard?"

Kayo rolls her eyes.

"Only about a thousand times."

"Right."

Kayo sets aside the scarf and delves deeper into the box. Her fingertips touch something coarse and she pulls it out.

"Oh, how cute."

Her tone is half-sarcastic and half-genuine. What she has recovered is a tiny little baseball cap, resplendent with the Boy Scout fleur-de-lis.

Then, in a moment of madness, she's up on her feet and trying to jam the hat down on John's head.

"Gah! What are you doing?"

Unsuccessful in her attempts, Kayo simply leaves the hat sitting atop his red head. He looks thoroughly unamused.

"Being a valedictorian has done nothing for the circumference of your skull," Kayo says.

"Hardly," John replies, pulling the cap from his head. "I think you'll find that's just normal growth."

And Kayo doesn't bother to point out that she was joking. Instead, she leans forward and presses a kiss to his lips.

John stills in the way he always does. It's like he's always surprised by affection. But he melts into the embrace and wraps his arms around her.

With a sly glance upwards, Kayo smirks.

"What's the scout motto again?"

"Be prepared," John answers automatically.

"And are you?" Kayo asks.

It takes a few moments for John to process the information and pick up on her actual meaning. When he does, it's like a lightbulb has flicked on.

"Oh, yes. Always."


	51. Chapter 51

**51\. Scott, John and Virgil – Crystal**

Scott was dead. It had finally happened. And when it did, Virgil wasn't even sad. In fact, he was relieved. Because his brother had been suffering, suffering, _suffering_ for weeks now. It was a mercy.

His relief didn't last for long, though. An hour after Scott had passed on, Virgil heard a gunshot _somewhere_ in the hangar, or the warehouse, or wherever it was they had been held captive for so long. Then, a minute later, the door to their cell was flung open – and Virgil saw a face he never thought he would again.

" _John_?"

His brother didn't speak right away. For a moment, he just stands there. Virgil is crouched protectively over his brother's dead body and, after another moment, his eyes start to overflow.

"Did you get him?" he asks, his voice thick. "Did you kill that _bastard_?"

Without words, John nods. And only after that does Virgil notice the blood splatter on the front of his uniform.

Then Virgil screeches, all sense and strength deserting him.

"Scott's _dead_."

John comes over and crouches beside them. He reaches out but Virgil won't let go. He hugs Scott's body to him. _No_ , he thinks. _We were in this together. Just us. I want to be with him for a while longer_.

But then John's gloved hands are prying his grip loose. John rolls Scott's body over, cradling his head in his lap. Virgil wants to slap him, punch him, _kill him_ , because he's interfering. Even though he knows he shouldn't feel that way. But nothing makes sense anymore.

What happens next doesn't make sense, either.

Scott's eyes _open_.

"John?" he croaks.

Virgil recoils, skidding backwards, his bare skin cut to ribbons on the hard floor.

Scott raises his hand a few inches and John grabs hold of it. There isn't much strength in his fingers. John does the gripping for them both.

"How…did you…find us?"

Virgil's breaths are coming in deep, whooping gasps now. Because corpses don't talk. And Scott was definitely _dead_.

John brings his other hand up to cup the side of Scott's head and almost smiles. Almost.

"I used my crystal ball," he says.

Then he shifts and pulls Scott into his arms. He lifts him like he's made of nothing but air.

Then Gordon and Alan burst in. Neither know where to look or what to do or what to say and Virgil knows exactly how that feels.

A blanket is thrown over him and then he finds himself propped up by his littlest brothers. And his brain and his legs give out because _none of this makes sense_.

And he doesn't remember what happens next. Whether he blacked out or something else, he doesn't know. But the next thing he remembers is being in his bedroom on the island, hooked up to drips and bandaged within an inch of his life.

He looks to the side and John is there. He's still in his uniform. The blood is still there. And even in the dark, Virgil can see the tear tracks on his pale face.

Virgil wants to ask about John. He wants to know if he's okay. Because he _killed_ someone. And none of them have ever done that before. But the words that come out of his mouth are about someone else.

"How's Scott?"

John nods, so slowly, clenching his hands on his knees.

"He'll be fine," he says. "You'll both be fine."

Saying two words has sapped all of Virgil's strength and he can't say anything more. He falls asleep again and when he wakes again, John is still there, sitting in the dark with his head in his hands.


	52. Chapter 52

**52\. Virgil and Gordon – Clay**

"Virgil, will you do my homework for me? _Please_?"

"For the last time, Gordo, no. I will not make your sculpture."

"But Viiiiirg… I'm so bad at this! I keep getting the clay all stuck to the table and it just never looks like what it's supposed to!"

"Gords, what do you think will happen if I do your sculpture, you bring it in and it's a million times better than anything you've done for the teacher before?"

"She'll think I've become a genius over the weekend?"

" _No_ , Gordo. She'll know you cheated and you'll get into trouble. So I am not going to do your homework for you."

"Fine."

"Gordon? How are things going?"

"Go away, traitor!"

" _Gordon_ , come on. Don't be like that. Can I come in?"

" _No_."

"Alright."

"Hey! I said 'no.' What – what are you staring at?"

"Gordon, that's actually really good."

"Virgil, you – what? It's _good_?"

"Yeah, it really is. You've put so much detail into the scales."

"Well, yeah. I just started looking up a lot of pictures and tried to figure out how to make the shapes."

"It's awesome! Now aren't you glad you did it yourself?"

"No. I've been at this for four hours and I still have my math homework to do."

"Tell you what. Finish your sculpture and I'll get John to help you with math. I can't because I have piano practice."

"He'll just be grumpy about it and won't want to."

"Don't worry, Gordo. I can be very persuasive…"

"Awesome!"


	53. Chapter 53

**53\. The Tracy Clan – Conference**

It's rare that they're all together. When they were kids, they couldn't help but be near one another. Scott would stand on one of Alan's toy cars. He'd yell and would disturb John, who would come out spitting curses in five languages. The ruckus would interrupt Virgil's piano practice and he'd come out, all guns blazing. Alan would cry and Gordon would giggle, since he put the car on the floor in the first place.

Growing up, they couldn't wait to get out of one another's pockets.

Now that they're grown, it's rare that they get together. But they're together now and that's what matters. They _have_ to be together right here and right now.

They're nibbling on burned cookies without question. They're laughing and smiling and joking and John's not even complaining about gravity.

But then Scott coughs to get everyone's attention and the mood changes. They're not just here to chat. They're here to _talk_ about the one subject none of them really _wants_ to talk about, but is always on their mind.

As Scott speaks, the conference begins.

"It's been a year, guys. We need to talk about Dad."


	54. Chapter 54

**54\. Scott and John – Ghost**

Ghosts are not something Scott has ever believed in. Not even as a kid. He has always been a strong believer in the idea that the afterlife would be so interesting, no one would _want_ to hang around on Earth.

He's starting to change his mind, though. He's starting to realise that you don't have to be dead to be a ghost.

When Five was blown to pieces, a big chunk of John was taken out, too. Not literally, of course. John had managed to make it to Three before Alan had to fire the missiles. Metaphorically, though, it was as though John was hit by the explosives, torn limb from limb, the best part of him gone.

Ever since, he's been floating around the villa. Ever since, he's been a ghost. And Scott doesn't know what to do about it.

Virgil is easy. He listens to sense. He's grounded, always looking at the positives. Gordon is easy, too. Provoke him enough and he'll blow his top, quickly followed by a torrent of tears that washes away the pain. Alan is a goofball with a heart of gold; he's usually the one giving the comfort, not needing it. But John? He's something else entirely.

He doesn't listen to niceties. Punches don't work. And tears? Scott can't remember the last time he saw his brother cry.

John is on the upper floor of the villa, sitting on the edge with his arms on the rail. His legs are dangling, his feet bare. The eyes are the worst. They look blank. They look hollow.

Scott doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to say. So instead of doing or saying anything, he simply sits beside his brother. Their legs hang down together, swaying slightly. Scott doesn't ask questions and John doesn't speak.

After a half hour, John leans over and places his head on Scott's shoulder. And Scott brings a hand up and winds his fingers into John's red hair. And they sit there for a while longer, just existing.

They don't speak. They don't do much of anything. But the feeling of head against his fingertips is enough to reassure Scott that his brother isn't lost forever. He's still here. Just about.


	55. Chapter 55

**55\. Scott and Alan – Coin**

As soon as he drops his book bag on the floor, he has an armful of Alan.

"Scottie! Scottie! Guess what?"

Scott chuckles and lifts his brother up high.

"What?" he asks.

"My toof fell out!"

Alan holds the little white tooth aloft as if it's a gold medal.

"Awesome, Sport!" Scott says. Then he raises one hand to cup his mouth. "You know what that means, don't you?"

Eyes alight, Alan grins even more.

"A visit from the toof fairy!"

Scott's a high school senior and it feels like there's a millennium between him and his littlest brother. Sometimes he doesn't even feel like his father. Sometimes he feels more like his dad. Mostly, Scott feels this way when their real father is away on business. Jeff Tracy tries to keep it to a minimum, but semi-rural Kansas really isn't ideal and often, he has to travel.

John pops his head around the kitchen door. Scott can see steam rising above him. When their dad was gone, cooking defaulted to John – because Scott inherited his cooking skills from their grandmother.

"Hey, Scott," John says, waving a spindly-fingered hand. "Alan's tooth fell out."

"I already tolded him!"

There is pure rage in Alan's voice. Scott tries not to laugh and sets the kid down again.

"Well, that means tonight you'll be a dollar richer," he says.

"As long as you eat all your meatloaf," John adds.

Alan's face crumples in disgust.

"Meatloaf is stinky! Just like you! Stinky meatloaf from stinky Johnny!"

He disappears and John rolls his eyes. Scott can't stop himself from laughing, this time.

Once dinner is over and homeworks are done (supervised by Scott and John) and Virgil's finished his piano practice and Gordon's been picked up from his swim club and cajoled into eating (meatloaf was clearly not a family favourite), Alan finally goes to bed.

Just after eleven p.m., Scott and John pool their spare change.

"There's a dollar ninety here," John says.

"We'll give him it all," Scott says. "Why not? He'll be delighted."

And so, coins in hand, Scott creeps into his littlest brother's bedroom and deposits the money underneath his pillow, trying not to let the coins jingle.

"Sleep tight, Sport," he says.

The next morning, Alan came downstairs to breakfast with coins dripping from his hands.

"Look, Scottie! Look!"

And he does. And he smiles. And John puts a bowl of oatmeal down in front of Alan.

"Stinky oatmeal!" he says, depositing the coins on the table. "I got enough money here to buy my own breakfast. And I won't buy oatmeal!"

He sticks his tongue out and John puts his head in his hands, but Scott can see his grin. And he can't help but laugh.


	56. Chapter 56

**56\. John and Virgil – Remedy**

 _"_ _Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us."_

 _\- Voltaire_

Scott sat with him and let him stew. Five was gone and with it, a huge part of their redhead brother. But Virgil can't take the sorrow any longer. So, after two weeks of telling himself not to say anything, Virgil finally caves.

"It's time to snap out of this, Jay," Virgil says.

John looks up from his couch nest and blinks with watery eyes. Virgil nearly aborts there and then because there is _so much pain_ in the green. But he steels himself and clenches his fists. _No. This needs to happen_.

"Virg? Huh? I mean, I just…"

" _Christ_ , Jay. You can't even string a coherent sentence together anymore. It's time to _snap. Out. Of. This_."

Virgil's tone isn't angry. Far from it. He's _scared_. Scared for his brother, scared of where he's gone – or where he's going.

John blinks again and opens his mouth like a fish. No words come out. He looks away.

That tore it. Virgil doesn't exactly know where he's going with this, but he jumps down into the sunken couch area, his work boots sending deep vibrations through the floor, and then he's looming over his brother.

"Jay, you've _got_ to snap out of this. Yes, Five is gone. _Yes,_ it took a lot of your life with it. But the rest of your life isn't gone. We're still here for you. _I'm_ still here for you. You just _need_. _To_. _Stop. Wallowing_."

Before John can do say anything, Virgil's arms are around his waist. Then he pulls his brother onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry and takes the stairs two at a time.

Before either of them know what's happening, they're at the poolside and then John's no longer on Virgil's shoulder. Because Virgil has tossed him into the pool.

As soon as his brother's fully-clothed form hits the water, Virgil folds his arms in anticipation of the comments that are to come. There will be phrases thrown around like _how dare you_ and _who gave you the right_. When John surfaces, though, there are no words. And Virgil feels like a world class heel.

John's soaked to the skin and blinking like an owl. And he just _looks_ like little kid left behind in the rain. When his lower lip starts to go, Virgil curses himself to the moon and back.

But the next sound he hears is not what he thinks it will be.

John starts _laughing_.

it's a wonderful sound. They're deep, whooping guffaws, punctuated by gasps and hiccups. And then John throws himself onto his back and simply floats on the surface of the water, still laughing like a madman.

"I take it I'm not dead then?" Virgil calls out.

John rights himself and says nothing. Still laughing, he wades to the edge of the pool. Really, Virgil should have seen what was coming right away. But he doesn't until it's too late and then he's unceremoniously pulled under the water.

They both surface and stare at one another. And then John starts to laugh again. And Virgil grins.

John wades forward and pulls Virgil into a sopping hug. Virgil hugs back.

"Thanks, Virg," John says.

Virgil pounds his brother's back and nods. Because the sound of his brother's laughter, of his voice, is worth a thousand million soakings.


	57. Chapter 57

**57\. Scott – Flesh**

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

He desperately wants to resist. He doesn't want to do this to himself. But he cannot resist. He cannot stop himself.

 _This is wrong_ , he thinks. _I shouldn't do it. I'm better than this. I don't_ need _to do this._

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

His fingers twitch. His head feels tight with stress. He can't even blink because if he does, the sight might disappear. His eyes are _burning_. But he won't stop looking. He knows he must but his body will not obey

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

He's trembling, sweating. His whole body is shaking and he feels himself falling away, down the slippery slope towards self-destruction. _You don't need this. You don't even really want it. Just show some self-control, man!_ But his hands are no longer obeying his head and he finds himself reaching out into the abyss.

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

And the last piece of pie tastes like _heaven_.


	58. Chapter 58

**58\. Scott, Gordon and Kayo – Fireworks**

" _Cuz baby, you're a_ _fiiiiiiiirework_!"

"Oh good _god_."

Scott reached over and patted Kayo's back.

"I know. I know."

They were sitting in the sunken living area of the lounge and they were _suffering_.

"Please, Scott, make it stop."

There was genuine sorrow in Kayo's voice and Scott tried his best not to stick his fingers in his ears as Gordon kept on singing.

" _Come on show them whaaaaaaaaaaat you're worth_."

She looked up and Scott and shook her head.

"Why did you do it?"

" _Make them go, 'ah, ah, ah'._ "

Scott shook his head.

"I don't know. It was a moment of madness."

Madness, indeed. Scott had ordered a karaoke machine, complete with a litany of retro songs, in a fit of stupidity and it had been in near constant use since its installation.

" _As you shoot across the sky-ay-ay_."

"Gordon, _please_ ," Kayo asked. "Please, stop. I've had enough."

Gordon did stop singing at that and gave Kayo his best pout.

"You don't like the song?" he asked. "I can sing something else."

"No, Gordon, that's not –"

Kayo made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a strangled sob as the next backing track started to play and Gordon began to sing.

" _Just a small town girl, livin' in a lonely world_. _She took the midnight train goin' anywhere_."

At the sound of Journey, Alan and Virgil were summoned. Together, they grabbed the second mike and joined in.

" _Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit_. _He took the midnight train goin' anywhere_."

At some point, Gordon had activated the comm to Thunderbird Five. And even _John_ was singing.

" _A singer in a smoky room, a smell of wine and cheap perfume._ "

Scott blinked.

"John, are you using a _hairbrush_ as a microphone?"

He got no response other than continued singing from all four of his brothers.

 _"_ _For a smile they can share the night. It goes on and on and on and onnnnnn…"_

Scott sighed. _Well,_ he thought, casting Kayo an apologetic look, _as the old saying goes_ , _if you can't beat them, join them…_

He took a deep breath and then all five of their voices rang out in unison.

" _Strangers, waiting. Up and down the boulevard_."

There was a look of utmost betrayal on Kayo's face. Scott skipped up the steps and grabbed onto Gordon's mike.

" _Their shadows searching in the night. Streetlights, people. Living just to find emotion. Hiding somewhere in the niiiiiiiight_!"

Kayo put her head in her hands again.

"Please, _please_ , kill me now."


	59. Chapter 59

**59\. Virgil and EOS – Jury**

"I do not understand your condemnation."

Virgil rankled even at the AI's sickly sweet voice.

"You nearly killed two of my brothers," he spat.

"Two of your brothers nearly killed me," EOS said. "I was acting in self-preservation."

Crouched in Five's gravity ring, Virgil reached for another of his tools and laid a sheet of transparent, high tensile polymer over the cracked glass. His temper flared again because, from what he had been told, his brother's head had been right there when it started to splinter. _And what if he'd been tossed out into space?_ he thought. _Helmet or not, he'd probably still have been killed._

" _You_ came to the station," Virgil spat. " _You_ invaded John's home. _You_ nearly killed him. All he tried to do was keep you safe."

"You are merely a human," EOS said. "You cannot stand as judge and jury over me. I am far superior to your mediocre intellect."

Nostrils flaring, Virgil spun around and jabbed a finger at the camera above him.

"I damn well _can_ stand as judge and jury," he snarled. "And I wish I could be your _executioner_ as well, _EOS_." He spat out the word like a curse. "You nearly killed my brother. And he showed you mercy. I wouldn't have been so understanding. I would have purged you from the system the first chance I got."

The ring of lights burned red and the motors inside the moving camera whirred like buzz saws.

"I knew I was right," EOS said. "I knew all hands were raised against me. I said so. I told John. No one is going to accept me. You will always vilify me."

The little white control box spun around and started to whizz away. Virgil looked down at the cracked glass and his abandoned tools. Then he looked beyond them to the blue and green orb below them.

The station was tethered above Tracy Island by the space elevator. That was how Virgil had come up. John had been ordered down by Scott for a medical – and almost a psych evaluation, though Virgil had managed to change his tune on that one. John wasn't crazy. He was just compassionate.

And as he watched the camera disappear, Virgil sighed. _I guess I should show some of that same compassion. She did relent, after all._

"EOS!"

Virgil's boots were heavy on the curved glass floor as he went after the AI. She stopped and half-turned as Virgil caught up.

"What?" she asked.

"Look," Virgil said, running a hand through his hair. "I don't like what you did to my brother. I don't like that you put his life in danger. But… I guess I understand why you did it. And I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm sorry I judged you."

Reluctantly, the camera turned. The ring of lights was now yellow.

"Self-preservation is my primary function," EOS said.

"And the preservation of my brothers is _my_ primary function," Virgil replied.

There was a pause. After a moment, the lights went green.

"I am sorry, Virgil," EOS said. "I am sorry I put your brother in danger."

Smiling, Virgil reached up to touch the camera lens.

"Apology accepted, EOS," he said. "Just don't do it again, okay?"

The lights flickered in a semi-circle. It almost looked like a smile.

"I will change my primary function," she said. "From now on, it will be to preserve the life of John Tracy on this station."

Virgil smiled and turned around to walk back to the repair work he had left behind.

"Glad to hear it, EOS," he said. "I'm very glad to hear it."


	60. Chapter 60

**60\. Gordon/Penny – Courage**

Love is a funny thing. It's overwhelming. It's all you've ever wanted. You need to shout from the rooftops about it. You want to let everyone in the world _know_.

And yet. When it comes to coming clean about such feelings to the _object_ of your affections, things become a lot more difficult.

He should have said it when they were in the temple. Instead of going for a kiss, he should have gone for the jugular. Taken the bull by the horns. Simply told the _truth_. But he didn't. And now Gordon finds himself wondering if he'll ever be able to tell Penelope the truth about how he feels.

He's got a glass of whiskey in one hand. With the other, he adjusts his bow tie. She's invited him to the mansion for New Year's Eve – along with _Grandma_ , of all people. How can a guy hope to man up and say how he feels when someone in the room used to change his diapers? Regardless, Gordon knows it's time to put his life in Penny's hands.

He downs the rest of his whiskey and casts the glass aside. Big Ben is on the TV and everyone starts to gather for the countdown. As the numbers tick down, Gordon's anxiety rises.

"5, 4, 3, 2, 1 - "

And as cheers of 'Happy New Year!' and hugs are doled out, Gordon pulls Penelope into an embrace. He brings his mouth to her ear.

"I love you," he whispers, his throat tight.

And before she can respond, he pulls her in for a kiss. It's sweet and juicy and the best thing in the world _ever_.

Not the best thing, actually. The _actual_ best thing comes after. It comes when she smiles, eyes glimmering, puts her lips to his ear and whispers.

"I love you too, Gordon Tracy. I always have…"


	61. Chapter 61

**61\. Gordon – Courage (to admit he is dyslexic) - specific prompt request.**

He never liked admitting it. It sounded like a dirty word. _Dyslexia_. The fact he had it made him squirm. _How can I not even get letters in the right order?_ he thinks. _It's supposed to be easy. But it's not._

Spelling had always been Gordon Tracy's Achilles' heel. How many times had he been ground into the dirt by the feet of the other kids?

" _Tracy can't spell! He doesn't even know the difference between a 'b' and a 'd'_!"

That comment had earned a few people broken noses – and Gordon a handful of detentions. Of course he knew the difference. It was just that when he was writing, things didn't always turn out exactly the way they should - no matter how hard he tried.

 _I feel like an idiot_ , he thinks as he presses his face into his pillow. _Even Allie can spell better than me…_

At the knock on his bedroom door, Gordon turned.

"What?"

"Gordo?"

 _Great. Johnny. The boffin himself, come to rub my stupidity into my stupid face._

"What do you want, John?" Gordon asks.

"May I come in?"

 _May I_ , Gordon thinks with a snort. _He even uses correct grammar when he's speaking_.

"Whatever," he calls out.

Light spills in from the hallway as John comes in. He hovers by the door for a minute before closing it. There's something strange about the way he's behaving and it makes Gordon sit up.

"What's up, bro?" he asks.

John has something in his hand. He clutches the bit of paper in front of his chest as he approaches the bed.

"Gordo, there's something I want to talk to you about."

He holds out the paper. Gordon takes it and his temper flares as he reads the words.

 _TRACY - DYSLEXIC TENDANCIES - VERY STRONG_.

"Oh, wow," he says, crumpling the paper up and _literally_ throwing it into his brother's face. "I can't believe you'd come in here with that. Okay, fine, I admit it!" Gordon throws his hands up into the air. "I'm dyslexic. Happy now, hmm? Happy now that it's in writing that I'm a dumbass – and yes, I know that was a pun, _thank-you-very-much_."

John rubs his face where the paper hit him and then bends down to retrieve it.

"Read it again, Gords."

Spitting feathers, Gordon almost doesn't take the paper John is holding out to him. But John isn't relenting. So Gordon snatches the paper.

And then he looks at the date. It's not right. He only had his screening a week before. This is dated three years ago.

Then he looks at the name – the _whole_ name, this time. Not just the first.

 _JOHN TRACY – DYSLEXIC TENDENCIES – VERY STRONG._

"You're not the only one in the world who has a difficulty," John says. There's no ire in his tone. "I just wanted you to know that."

 _This has to be a prank_ , Gordon thinks. _It can't be real!_

"Johnny, I don't understand!" he says. "How can _you_ be dyslexic? You're like, a genius or something."

With a soft snort, John shakes his head.

"I'm not a genius, Gordon," he says. "But I'm smart enough to see you're making a fundamental mistake in your thinking. Being dyslexic doesn't have anything to do with intelligence. In fact," he adds with another snort, "many people with dyslexia actually have a higher than average IQ. I just wanted you to know that."

Gordon looks down at the paper again and then back at his brother.

"Thanks, dude," he says. "I totally did not know this about you."

"I generally don't talk about it," John says, "not because I'm ashamed about it. I don't talk about it because I try not to let it hold me back. And I think you should adopt a similar point of view."

Nodding, Gordon holds the paper out to John again.

"You know what?" he says. "I think I will."

When John leaves, Gordon lies back down on the bed. This time, his face isn't pressed into the pillow. Instead, he's looking out the window. He's looking to the stars.


	62. Chapter 62

**62\. Alan – Voiceless**

Alan wants to scream. He wants to yell and shriek and let the whole world know what's going on.

This isn't supposed to happen. This isn't a movie or a TV soap opera. This is _real life_ and he can't accept that it's really happening. He wants to screech his disobedience out into the galaxy. _I DO NOT ACCEPT THIS. I DO NOT ACCEPT THAT THIS IS REALITY._

Unfortunately, that's not how life works. Maybe if it was a movie or a TV show, he could do so. He could walk off the edge of the screen, he could sabotage the writers, he could redo the script, rewrite his father back into the story.

But he can't. In fact, he can't do anything about his father's disappearance. Not a damn thing.

Alan can't even scream. He can't yell or shriek or screech. He can't pluck up a pen and rewrite reality. His father is gone and he's not coming back.

Alan wants to scream. But he can't. He's voiceless, staring into the void with dark eyes.


	63. Chapter 63

**63\. Professor Harold – Coin**

If that woman thought stopping his finding from World Heritage would stop him completely, she was very wrong. Professor Harold snatched up one of the coins and just about resisted the urge to bite it.

Even without funding, he had still managed to get out again. Archaeology is in his blood. He's been doing it for years and not even a jumped-up socialite with an ex-army bodyguard is going to stop him from getting what he wants.

He _sort of_ understands her point of view. Some of his methods have been described as… _unusual_. And it was true that he would leave a man behind if it meant lining his own pockets with silver.

He turns around to survey his finds and grins, his mouth widening into a wicked slash. All on his own, all by himself, he had managed to come across the find of the century. A whole _chest_ full of gold Peruvian doubloons. Harold tosses the coin back onto the top of the pile and claps his hands together. With no partners, it meant no splitting the treasure.

"It's mine!" he says into the darkness of the underground cave. "It's all mine!"

He goes about his business, loading the coins into a backpack that threatens to pull every last muscle in his back to shreds. He shoves the last of the doubloons into his pockets and goes to the rope. _Time to climb!_

After five heaves upwards, he knows there's something wrong. After another five, his worst fears are confirmed.

The rope comes away from its anchor above. Harold falls, landing so hard on the backpack of coins he fears he's snapped his spine. The rope coils on his chest like a dead snake and the last of it strikes his face.

"No, no, _no!_ "

He sits in the darkness for some time, alone with his haul. He knows what he has to do but, really, all the doubloons in the world won't be payment for the pain he must endure.

Eventually, he plucks up the courage to do what must be done. He picks up his radio.

"Umm, International Rescue? This is Professor Harold. I…" He sighs and bites the bullet. "I need help!"


	64. Chapter 64

**64\. Scott, Virgil and John – Once**

Once, there was a family brought together by love.

Once, there was a family torn apart by loss.

Once, there was a family of five brothers that became only three.

Once, there were three brothers who spent months searching every corner of the globe for their missing siblings.

Once, there were two brothers who endured the worst of tortures to protect the others and their secrets.

Once, there was a brother who didn't sleep for months, swearing not to rest until he found those who were missing.

And then he did. And then they went to reclaim what was theirs. And the brother had to break his most sacred of commandments and take a life. And it was the only way.

 **~oOo~**

John sat at Virgil's bedside for half of three days. The other half of the days? He sat at Scott's bedside. He wasn't really living. He was just existing, really. He didn't flinch as the GDF doctors and nurses, sworn to secrecy, bustled in and out. He didn't worry when Colonel Casey ordered her troops to take over from International Rescue where they could.

Running on a minimal crew, the three unlost Tracy boys and Kayo had been strung out. The GDF would shoulder the burden for now, she had said. John had barely heard her.

After three days of endless drips and monitors that beeped and pinged in the night, Virgil was coherent enough to speak. Just about.

"How's Scott?" he asked.

John nodded, his movements agonisingly slow. He clenched his hands on his knees.

"He'll be fine," he said. "You'll both be fine."

That was not a lie. They would be fine – physically, at least. Mentally? That was a different story. For all of them.

 **~oOo~**

After two months of recuperation, Scott was more than delighted to be pronounced fit for duty. Any more lying in bed and he would have gone insane. He'd been poked and prodded and bandaged and massaged and _therapized_ within an inch of his life. He was fine. _Fine_.

Well, maybe not fine. But okay – certainly okay enough to do something useful with his time instead of watching daytime television.

He knew that Virgil felt the same way. Once, they would have revelled in the idea of an extended period away from the line of duty. Once, they thought they would never get to perform a rescue again. But now they were back and they were healing and the road was long and winding, but at least they were on it. Eventually, they would be able to look back on their ordeal at the hands of the Hood and laugh.

Maybe. Or maybe not. There wasn't much to laugh at. But at least now they were home and safe and the family was back together. More or less.

Scott stretched and felt his vertebrae _pop_. They weren't fully back together. _But soon_ , he thought. _Soon we will be._

 **~oOo~**

Virgil had used his down time wisely. He'd played so much piano that his fingers ached. He'd painted so many pictures that he was running out of walls to put them on.

Some of the art didn't deserve to go on a wall, of course. Not because it was _bad_. Rather, because it was _disturbing_. Those were the sort of paintings he did alone, at night, when the demons of his mind came out to play. It wasn't the sort of thing he liked to share.

There were endless paintings of darkness. Countless paintings of yellow eyes that glinted like knives.

There were far too many pictures of uncertain shapes, pale and naked in the darkness, stripped and whipped and burnt and branded.

Once he had a big enough stockpile, he and Scott took them down to the beach and burned them. It was a grand bonfire and the flames were cleansing. With each painting they threw on, they accompanied it with a curse.

" _That's_ for what you did to us. _That's_ for being a fucking psycho. _That's_ for nearly killing Scott. _That's_ for nearly killing Virgil. That's for making John kill _you_."

The flames were fifteen feet high and dancing in the moonlight before they felt the catharsis they were looking for. They fell asleep on the sand together, curled up to one another like all those nights in the darkness of the cell. But this time, they were bathed in light.

 **~oOo~**

Quite how it happened, Scott wasn't sure. But he was glad it did. Because if it hadn't, their family mightn't have been able to dodge the bullet of loss again.

He stumbled upon his brother standing on a cliff.

The worst part of it? The goddamn calm _logic_ that was in his voice.

"An eye for an eye."

 **~oOo~**

Once, he had been able to live with himself.

Once, he hadn't been a murderer.

But now? He was. And he didn't want to live with that.

What would his father say?

 **~oOo~**

Call it instinct. Call it serendipity. Call it a brotherly psychic bond. Call it bullshit. Whatever it was, Virgil was glad that he heard Scott's voice in his head. _Virgil, I need you!_

It definitely wasn't said aloud. _Definitely_. But he heard it. And so Virgil found himself standing beside Scott with his hands held out as if he were facing off with a wild animal.

It wasn't a fair comparison. There was nothing wild in John's face, his body language, his tone. He was calm and collected – and about the hurl himself onto a ragged rock face.

"John, don't. Don't fucking _dare_. Not after everything we've been through. Not after all this."

John looked at him with flat eyes at that.

Then he turned and took a step.

He walked over to them both and then sat on the tough grass at their feet, staring at Virgil's knees.

"Okay."

And that was that.

 **~oOo~**

Once, there was a family torn apart by loss.

Once, there was a family that was nearly torn apart again.

Once, there was a family brought together by love.

Once, there were five brothers that couldn't let each other go.

Once.

 **~oOo~**

 **FIN**


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